To Hell and Back

Chapter One

His worn boots were even more worn than the ground that they worked against. That could also depict his body. Hadn't he been, in some way, beat down like the dust underfoot for the greater part of his thirty-two years? He frowned. Was that all that he was? Right now, he felt sixty-two. Being bent, wracked with pain inside and out, maybe his backside belonged on a porch rocking chair, not putting the finishing touches on a small, three-by-three foot grave.

His name was Hector Davies. Well, that was what was written in his mama's Bible, anyhow, now hidden among the rest of the faded pages of his past in the far corner of the attic. He hadn't gone by his given name since he had put a set of long-term bars behind him. To those that knew him now, he was David Oates. Not too twisted from the original, as the last was borrowed from the woman who first put pen and ink to the family Bible's thin sheets. He didn't need to close his eyes to see that very print, so delicately placed by her gentle hand all those years before.

Carina Oates marries Michael Davies, July 31, 1837. Son, Donovan, born January 8, 1839. Another line, another son, Hector, born June 10, 1841.

"Well, Mama," he said to the warm, even oppressive air that always seemed to be around him. "If you would've kept track a lot farther, there'd be more deaths than births written down. One of 'em right here."

Heaving a sigh, he stamped his sole against the unforgiving earth and a piece of the once-solid leather remained among the clods. But that wasn't the only part of him that would be left there. The rest now lay underground. Forever.

Reaching for the cross that he had already whittled to be sharp enough to penetrate the soil, he rubbed his thumb over the center, a set of letters that were carved directly off of his heart.

"Annabelle," he said, the gruff tones being etched by grief, among other things, and then the cross went into the ground. "Rest easy, little one."

The duty done, he turned toward the house, a shack really, by the looks of it. Winter would reduce it even further if he didn't put some labor into it before the temperatures would make the permanent switch. He would have to. Otherwise, before this time next year, he would be stamping the ground all over again, for one, maybe even two more graves.

Hand turning the knob, with a pair of hinges making a squeak, he entered to see the woman he loved. "Mona."

Her lashes lifted, but the look remained on him for only a moment longer before taking her gaze to the curtained window and where the cross stood somewhere on its other side. "Is my baby laid?"

Swallowing hurt. "Yes."

Mona's head gave a single bob. "At least there's comfort in that."

He was by her side in one stride, and not because their living space was so small. "I'm so sorry, Mona."

He had said the same before. Of course the words came off of his lips earlier that morning when he woke to find his wife sitting next to the cold fireplace, clutching the baby. With one look he had known Annabelle was gone. Maybe he shouldn't have felt the knife slam in his chest's center when he touched the still frame. For two weeks they had both expected it. Since the birth Mona had looked at her newborn in fear, knowing that something wasn't right. But without anything but weevils taking residence in the cracked cookie jar that also served purpose for a money bank, he had never ridden for the doctor.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated, bringing his lips to caress her cheek, but even during the endearment, he knew he needed to offer something further. A promise, so real, so true, it would bring its own kind of hurt. He cleared his throat. "I'm gonna do something about this, Mona."

Her moist eyes sought his. "What?"

"Things are gonna change. I know I can't take away today's pain and that in the past, but I promise you things are gonna change. I'm gonna make this place livable, gonna make it grow, and I'm gonna see you smile again. And what's more, Mona. I'm gonna make sure when you have another baby, lack of money ain't gonna be what stands in the way of a doc's care. I promise."

Maybe Mona should have blurted the question mark that would have been sitting like a hot coal on most tongues, but watching her husband step underneath the square in the ceiling that outlined the attic's door, there would be no point. She knew exactly how. Pushing a chair to be directly below the upper space, he moved the lid aside and hoisted his body into its darkest crevices.

With a thin line that made up her mouth, Mona waited until the lean frame returned to the main floor. He was now wearing an iron, black shirt and hat to match, the same color in the replaced boots on his feet, and as he repositioned the revolver on his hip, there was no doubt that he was aiming to use it.

"Hec."

He turned. Only his woman could call him that and not get a fist into a set of teeth. "Mona?"

"Do what you have to."

He became lost in her pale hue. That wasn't what he had expected. He was getting her blessing to turn back to the life that had put him behind bars, a life he once vowed to never go back to. But he had never expected that the other side of those bars would be working land that couldn't be worked, sweating underneath the hottest rays, freezing underneath the coldest winds, or burying his two-week-old child.

Reaching for her outstretched hand, he tucked it underneath his vest so that his wife could feel the rhythm, and heat, that was there. "I won't let you down."

"Be careful. I hate wearing black."

"But on me it looks good, right?" How he could make his lips turn upward with a tease when their hearts were still breaking, he wouldn't understand. Love, he guessed.

She showed it in return with the tiniest glint in her eyes. "I've never complained about your appearance before."

He took her face in his palms and expounded on their shared emotion. When he finally pulled away, his thumb went across the place where his lips had just warmed. "I'll be back sometime tomorrow."

Stepping back, his foot found the direction of the door, but a tug against his holster put everything on hold.

"Where you goin', Pa?"

"Nate." Both knees went to the ground so he could be level with his seven-year-old son. "I'm gonna go get some things to fix up the place for your ma."

"Can I come?"

He shook his head before the negative word found its strength on his tongue. His own pa had started working with Donovan at fifteen, and then when Hector turned the same, he was allowed to learn some of the tricks of life on the wrong side of the law. But if he had a choice with his own son, he would be waiting more than ten years before he allowed that kind of life to take root in his offspring. Or maybe never. It was a hard way being an outlaw. But as his eyes wandered above Nate's head to view the roof that would act closer to a sieve during the next rain, so was living honest.

Giving his son's shoulder a squeeze, he gave the gentlest of nudges in Mona's direction. "Stay with your ma. She needs you."

He knew of only one way to break away and that was to go without looking back. His only fail was when he topped his mount and his eyes found Annabelle's cross. It didn't tear him apart, but bolstered his resolve, putting the hooves in motion that would put him on the path of better living for his family or a lonely cot in a prison cell. There was nothing else in between, except that even worse off place, his grave.

"It won't go that far," he said to the only ears that were listening, his mount. "I've got too much at stake."

A wife and child, and loving both fiercely, were definitely enough to keep him from flying bullets. And if he worked the job as a highly trained professional, which he knew how to do, there wouldn't be any of those fiery pieces of lead coming his way.

Except…

He pulled up on the reins.

There was only one man in the territory that knew of his past. And no, it wasn't a member of the lawdog family. A man, like he, who had done time. A man, unlike he, who had permanently changed.

They were pardoned at the same time. No, they had never been friends, not even sharing the same prison ward. But because a judge signed their papers, first one, then the other, they had a connection. Stepping out of the prison at the same time, their eyes had naturally met, their names had been exchanged, and their hands came together to bid each other a fond good luck.

They weren't even pardoned for the same reason. The other had been found innocent and walked free, but he was let go because he ratted on the rest of the gang he rode with. Seemed like he had broken every outlaw code with that one. But he had a woman to go to, a woman he loved, and he would do anything to help her. Like now.

He looked toward Laramie, where somewhere in that further line west was Jess Harper.

That one name, that one man, could be the only hitch in what he was about to do, what he was about to become.

His finger tipped the edge of his black hat backward a couple of notches. Well, he had walked fine lines before, might as well caress that edge again. His first target of a hopeful many was going to be the Great Central Overland Mail. And if Jess Harper did come directly in his path, well then, murder, robbery, weren't they all the same to a wanted man? Just as long as that wanted man didn't get caught.