Chapter Three

Milo

It is late afternoon when Harper finally walks out of those gates. I am leaning up against the towering prison wall for its shade and holding onto the horses when he makes an appearance. There is no fanfare. No one tells him, 'so long,' or 'good luck.' No one pats him on the back. He just walks out.

He is wearing his civilian clothes: a tattered blue shirt, bandanna that looks like it has been worn through as many desert dust storms as the rest of his outfit, and pants with frayed hems that hang loosely on slender hips. And even though the clothes are at least a size too big on his too-lean frame, he looks a world of difference. Gone are the airs of defiance and misery, although his jaw still has a rigid set to it. The only thing he carries is a saddlebag slung across his shoulder. A dirty black Stetson shades his freshly shaven face. I imagine that women must melt into puddles at his feet. He is a handsome young buck, that is for sure. He walks a little funny. Still getting used to those freshly freed legs, I guess.

"Marshall," he calls, tipping his hat as he comes to a halt.

"Jess," I say in the way of a reply.

His eyes shift from me to the horse beside me. It is the one without stirrups let out far enough to drag the ground, so he right away knows the sleek black is the one he will be riding.

He nears the mare and drawls out a scratchy, "Ain't you a pretty thing?"

Midnight pulls up her inky head to nuzzle the outstretched hand he offers, gives a shake of her thick mane like she knows she's the best-looking thing on four legs, and whinnies at him. It seems that females of any species might melt into puddles at his feet. The thought nearly draws a chuckle up my throat.

"It seems as though she likes you," I smile. "She goes by Midnight."

Harper is stroking her neck and breathing in her smell. He is enthralled by the horse like he is reunited with something dearly loved and thought he might never see again. His hands are trembling once more, and if I am not mistaken, the wetness he just swiped away from beneath his eyes is not sweat.

"Midnight," he murmurs.

I think he has forgotten that I am even here. But I am wrong because he looks over and says, "She is a mighty fine animal, Marshall. I'm obliged for the loan."

I nod acknowledgment. "Please. Call me Milo, Jess."

He looks taken aback and hesitates before saying, "Milo it is, then."

"If we are going to make any kind of distance before breaking camp for the night, we need to light out," I prod.

"Yes, sir. I ain't gonna hold you back," he declares, taking the long leather reins in hand. He proceeds to leap onto the mare's back like an Apache brave. I would flatten a horse if I tried a move like that. The kid sits the saddle like he was hatched in a horse barn. A big grin splits his face and lights his eyes, and the quick flash of joy there is contagious after all of the darkness. I feel kind of like a pa giving his kid a Christmas present.

Although, I should have let that gap-toothed smile be my warning for what he does next.

My back is turned, and I put my foot in the stirrup to climb onto my muscular bay when my heart climbs to my throat, with alarm bells ringing.

Harper and Midnight have just left me in a cloud of dust and are tearing off in a thunder of hooves across the baked ground to who knows where; Mexico, most likely. He lets out a wild-sounding holler, similar to a Shoshone war cry that makes my hair stand on end, and not just for fear of losing in a scalping what little of it I have left. I soon realize what he just let loose is a rebel yell.

I am not one to curse often, but I let my lungs air out in a tirade while I clamber into the saddle. First of all, I am scared senseless that the rifle guards atop the prison wall will gun Harper down, thinking he is an escaping prisoner. Secondly, I think the man IS escaping. Why not? He has a fast horse, canteen, and a year left on his sentence. I am in a panic, with my normally cool temper at boiling point as I spur Big Red into hot pursuit. Why did I ever think this would work with a wildcard like Harper? I continue to curse my own stupidity.

We are barely up to speed when Midnight skids to a stop in the distance, turns on a dime and starts heading back my way. I ease up on Red, alternating between righteous anger and absolute relief that Harper is not escaping, just letting loose some of the wild that has been chained down for months.

They come back at a gentle lope, and by the time he pulls up beside me, I am ready to yank the man out of the saddle by the front of his shirt and give him what for. The temptation to do just that fails to ease when I see that he is still grinning. No repentance whatsoever drags down the excitement in his pleased countenance. In fact, he looks like he just won the grand prize saddle in a rodeo for his antics.

"HARPER! What in the name of all that is holy were you thinking, tearing off like that?" My voice thunders. I cannot even remember the last time I yelled in anger… during the war, maybe? Sue would be shocked to hear me.

Midnight dances, excited by her adventurous, skilled new rider, and nervous because of my shouting.

He tones down the smile, but, "Jess," he has the audacity to say. "You were gonna call me, Jess, remember?"

It is the wrong tactic for him to take because it sends me over the edge.

"Get off the horse, Harper. Now!"

He suddenly looks scared to death and immediately obeys my command, landing on the ground in a lithe dismount.

"I came right back," he defends in a rush.

I climb down too and close the distance between us to tower and glower so that he is forced to look up to meet my boiling gaze.

"I was wrong," I thunder down. "This arrangement is not going to work."

His throat bobs, and his eyes fill with fear and dread.

"I'm sorry, Marshall. I… I didn't think. I was blowin' steam and lost my head. I won't ever do it again, I swear."

His voice is apologetic but strong. He looks like his knees are about to drop out from beneath him, though, and I think he has stopped breathing.

I immediately feel guilty. It is not me he is afraid of, but after what I just said, he assumes I will take him right back to the prison, less than a quarter-mile behind us. I know he thinks that his short-lived freedom is over and done. In his few years, he has already experienced enough fear and threat to last a lifetime. I let out a sigh that sounds to my ears like a train engine releasing steam.

"That was a foolish thing to do." My words come out in less of a roar now. "I thought you were running, trying to escape. And I thought for sure a rifle guard would bead in on you and fire, screaming off like that."

His lips have a white shade about them, and his head drops, so I am boring a hole into the top of that filthy hat. When he looks back up, his eyes have a dead, hopeless look, like his neck is in the noose and the hangman's hand is on the trapdoor lever.

"You aimin' to take me back now?" The question comes out flat. And he just locked eyes with the pistol on my hip for a beat too long, like he is measuring whether he can wrestle it from me.

Midnight takes a couple of dancing steps, but Harper stands frozen, reins in his hand.

I drop a heavy hand on his shoulder. He jerks, snaps his head up and balls a fist like he is going to hit me. But he steadies instantly because I am not looking at him with anger now.

"No, Jess. I am not going to take you back."

He does that deflating thing again, but this time it is with relief.

"We need to discuss some rules, though, it seems," I calmly say and start in. "You know that you are in my custody, correct? Even outside those walls you just waltzed out of. And that means you do as I say when I say and without hesitation."

"Yes, sir," he meeks out, drilling me with those dark blues of his.

I begin with the tough parts. "I will not give you a second chance if you pull another stunt like that. Understood?"

I get another 'yes, sir,' and hard swallow.

"Now. I am giving you a lot of rein with this deal. I am not going to tie you to a tree at night or anything like that to keep you from being fiddle-footed. But I promise you, if you run from me, I will chase you down, however long it takes. And I will drag you back here in chains to face your full sentence, plus the extra two years your warden threatened for running again. Is that clear?"

He takes too long to answer, although I can see he is properly convinced. "CLEAR?!" I thunder.

"Clear as day, Marshall."

I realize that my grip on his shoulder is too tight, and I ease it. Both my hands are on his shoulders now, but gently.

"Jess, are we going to be able to make this work?" I ask, and my voice is much softer than before. "Within a week, I am going to have to trust you with a gun, to mingle with some very bad men, many of whom are your known associates. I am going to have to trust you to carry out an incredibly dangerous mission and not to run when the job is done." I let out a breath. "Maybe I'm asking… expecting too much," I say.

He squares the shoulders my hands still hold and levels on me. "I give you my word, Milo. I'll toe the line and keep my end of the bargain to bring down Huddleston. I'm obliged to you for the chance to work off some of my debt, though I ain't ever gonna say I should be here in the first place," he digresses, but then promises, "I won't mess this up, but not just because I owe you. I can't stomach the thought of them women and kids gettin' killed by a man I sold my gun, too. Huddleston's a nasty piece of work, and you were right, earlier, when you asked if I left that job 'cause of what I knew about him."

He pauses there and takes a deep breath.

"I wasn't gonna tell you this, Milo. On account of, after hearing it, you'd be thinkin' that I'd not be fit for the job."

I let my hands drop from his shoulders and take my own deep breath, but keep my lips tight and wait in trepidation of what he might tell me.

"I owe Huddleston my life, see?"

Heaven help me. I don't say it out loud, though, only roll my eyes upward toward the place I am asking for help. All of this has been for nothing, I guess. I am at least thankful that Harper is being honest with me.

"That's how I came to work for him," Harper continues. "It was in Forest Hill, a year after the war ended. I walked out of a saloon, and a bullet hit me in the shoulder from behind. I didn't even know Huddleston then, but he'd followed me outta the bat wings, just doin' his own thing. He saw me get hit and then gunned down the fella who shot me. He was on top of a roof across the street with a rifle. No doubt, he was about to drill me with another bullet after the first one went high. Turns out, the shooter was the brother of a man I killed in a gunfight sometime before."

I groan.

"It was a fair fight. The man drew first," Harper says earnestly.

I close my eyes for a long, drawn-out blink. I imagine for that brief moment the violent life this young man has lived. I nod my head for him to continue.

He clears his throat and starts back in. "First off, I'd like you to know I ain't ever ended a man I didn't have good reason for killing."

I believe him, and somehow there is not a doubt in my mind that what he says is true.

"After that, Huddleston took me back to his ranch," Harper proceeds with the story. "He took care'a me, with a doctor and such, until I was back on my feet and could work for him. I felt like I owed the man, for sure. I rode outta there, though, soon as I saw the kinda dirty tricks Huddleston was willin' to pull. He'd not done any thievin' or outright murderin', yet… to my knowledge, anyway. It's no stretch to say that he was livin' and riding us an inch within the law. By the time I hit the trail, I could see he was a man capable of such things you're sayin' he's doing."

I am mulling all of this around in my head. When Harper first started with the story, I thought the entire operation was blown, but I am hoping that maybe we can still make a go of it.

The sun is starting to dip low toward the horizon, and I gather Red's reins. We are not going to make it far tonight, and it is three days' ride back to my spread, fifteen miles this side of Forest Hill.

I am determined to make this work, and I believe that he is being straight with me.

"Just tread light and easy from here on out, son," I sternly warn.

He gives a sharp nod, "Like I'm walkin' atop the shells of the eggs I'm gonna cook for breakfast," he agrees and looks as sincere as a sinner in a prayer of repentance.

"Let's pull out," I say, but as he turns to make that little hop he does into the saddle, I stop him in his tracks with a hand raised in caution. "No, banshee yells, or spurs this time, huh, Jess?"

"No, sir, you've meeked me down plenty. Midnight and me are gonna pre-tend we've got a grandma ridin' double to church, from here out."

I give a soft-snorted chuckle at that and mount.