Ride for the Brand: Saints and Sinners

by SonoraDesertBloom

A continuation of "Saints and Sinners." This is the second part of a six-part series. Jess Harper has a heavy debt to pay to society. Slim, Andy, and Daisy befriend the former gunfighter, teaching him to love and transition into being a free man. Trouble brews on the horizon, however, as Jess learns to navigate his reformed lifestyle.

Ride for the Brand: Saints and Sinners 2

"Whoever does not love abides in death." 1 John 3:14

( A sequel to "Saints and Sinners." )

Prologue

Jess Harper's stay in the Laramie jail was short, all of three days. A transport for prisoners made its way into the town after receiving Sheriff Mort Cory's telegram. Three guards and a driver made up the detail of men responsible for picking up and transporting the guilty and unfortunate who were scheduled for a stay at the state prison. To the guards, Jess Harper was no hero. He was something less than human. He was a convict.

In those three days, Slim stopped by the jail twice before his final visit on the last day. Both times he brought an apple pie from Daisy and a message for Jess, sending her love. Jess had no appetite, once more, even for Daisy's pie. On Slim's first visit, he passed a plate through the bars and watched the man struggle to swallow each bite. Determined to break the monotony and worry felt by the man behind bars, the long-legged owner of the Sherman Ranch sat on a stool and spoke to this person he barely knew but who had earned his deep respect and friendship. The tall rancher did nearly all of the talking, telling his dark-haired friend about the repairs already started on the roof of the burned house. He told about Daisy and her unwillingness to rest after the strain of Percy Blake's attack on the Sherman Relay Station. Slim spoke of Andy and about the dreams he had for the boy to go to college. He talked about anything else he thought of that might ease the anguish that presented itself every time the expressive blue eyes of his friend met his own.

The visits from Slim were a welcome distraction for Jess. He appreciated the friendship offered to him by someone he held in the highest regard. Even though envy ate at him, Jess admired everything about the man. He did his best to choke down Daisy's pie, offering Slim his best smile and sincere thanks for bringing it to him. But he was eaten too far through with sadness and regret to appreciate the flavor of even the finest delicacy. The taste of love, family, friendship, and freedom that he had experienced during his one evening at the Sherman Ranch only served to make him discern how much he longed for those things. He had been alone for most of his life and thought how cruel of fate that upon finally finding a place and people to belong to, both were a million miles out of reach, or they may as well be with as much freedom as the walls and bars he was facing would grant him.

Slim was aware that his new friend was burying himself in sadness, and he hated to see it. The rancher didn't mind doing all of the talking during their few visits together. The unnaturally quiet man still seemed like a stranger to him, but he knew the important things about him. Jess was courageous and selfless. Slim not only owed him his life but Daisy's and Andy's too. No amount of apple pie could pay that debt. In his ponderings and worries about Jess Harper's difficult future, he vowed to do everything he could to help the troubled cowboy, not just now, but for the remainder of his life.

The morning the prison wagon was scheduled to arrive in Laramie, Slim left before daylight to make it into town to see Jess. During the previous visit, he had asked him about bringing Andy and Daisy to say goodbye, but Jess flatly refused it, blue eyes pleading. "They'll put me in irons again, Slim. Ain't nobody I want to say 'so long' to while I'm dressed in those. Don't bring 'em up here."

The two drank steaming cups of coffee on opposite sides of steel bars, waiting on the wagon to arrive. Mort joined them with his own battered tin cup of black brew. "I'd ask you how you're holding up, Harper, but I know the answer. Slim and me have been talkin'; we want you to come back to these parts after your dues are paid. You'll have a place here in Laramie and friends to get you back on your feet. I haven't said much about what you did to help Slim here, but I suppose there aren't really words to describe it, anyhow. You just know that we all think mighty highly of you, and there's a life for you here when you finish your time."

Jess did not know what to say but croaked out a "Thanks, Sheriff," as he stared into his coffee cup, head hanging. A hank of unruly dark hair obscured the deep furrow between his brows.

"My friends call me Mort, Jess."

Those words, coupled with feeling scared witless, were nearly too much for Jess. The lawman who, to him, represented consequence and loss of freedom was offering him friendship. Fine time to weep like a mournin' woman, Harper, he thought and choked back his emotions. Forcing himself to meet the sheriff's eyes, the sadness he felt leaked into his voice as he rasped out, "Mort," before ducking his head once more to stare a hole into the bottom of his empty cup.

"Listen, Jess," Slim chimed in, watching the clock and feeling a sense of panic, knowing that his friend's time was almost up. "Me and Daisy have been talking it over. We want to hire you on at the ranch when you get back. You've got a job waiting for you if you'll take it. It'll be hard work, nothing but mending busted fences and chasing stubborn beef through the rough country, but you'll have a steady wage and a place to hang your hat."

"Thanks, Slim. I ain't gonna turn ya down. I'm mighty appreciative of your offer, but three years is near an eternity."

"Doesn't matter how long, Jess. You'll have friends and a job waitin' on you."

"Thanks, Slim...Mort." Jess was genuinely grateful for the offers from the two men, but his insides were in so much turmoil he could hardly look forward to anything beyond the hell that he knew would be his life for the next three years.

The wagon that would take Jess away rolled to a stop in front of the sheriff's office a short time after the men's cups were emptied of coffee. The sound of heavy wheels crushing gravel tied his stomach in knots. He felt visceral terror at the noise and cast a desperate look at any exit or escape that might be available to him. Three years in a cage, the thought of it was suddenly unbearable. He could not submit himself to being chained and taken away. He would fight. He would escape or die trying. These thoughts raced through his mind as his resolve to submissively pay his dues crumbled and dissolved like a riverbank in a flash flood.

Slim watched the anguish that Jess felt take full grip. It manifested itself physically. The overwhelming dread that had turned to terror was obvious. Without other methods of comfort, he reached a long arm between bars and placed a steadying hand on the forearm of his trembling friend. In response to the reassuring touch, blue orbs, shaded by thick lashes, lifted to meet him. The fear and misery expressed in them made him want to weep.

"I can't, Slim." The words were quietly uttered, and the despairing plea behind them shattered the heart of the one they were directed toward.

"You can. And I'll be here waiting for you. You've got to hold on to knowing that there is life worth living on the other side of what you're facing."

Those words anchored him. He stared hard into the crisp, earnest blue of Slim's eyes and saw the truth there.

The two guards that came inside for Jess were all business. Their entry shattered the prisoner's brief delusions of escape and broke the heartfelt gaze of the two friends. They'd had to take a day's detour to stop in Laramie for him, and they had no time to waste. The condemned men inside the wagon all had scheduled dates to begin their stays in prison.

Mort opened the door to the cell, and once more, Jess stepped out of a cage just to face less freedom than he had when the door was shut. "Take care a' this for me, will ya Slim?" He handed the lanky man his Stetson.

Slim grasped Jess's hand and once more, felt the tremble in the younger man's grip. He wished with every fiber that he wouldn't have to let go of that hand. "You got it, cowboy. It'll be hangin' inside the Sherman place waitin' on you. Take care, Pard." The last part was said with a lump in his throat.

Their grip was severed with a "step aside, mister," from the guard who addressed Slim as he came at Jess. "Hands, boy," were the only words he spoke to Jess.

Exhibiting docility that moments before he had been incapable of, he forced steel into his backbone and tried to stand tall as the man placed thick manacles on his wrists. A short chain joined them. The cold and painful grip of the metal grated against his bones. What they symbolized turned the trembling he was trying so hard to disguise into a shudder, dissolving any backbone of steel he had imagined having. And for the second time in a week, Jess suffered through chains snapping closed around each of his legs. The coffee churned inside his otherwise empty stomach while he tried to hold his head high. The effort of decorum was useless as reduced to a hobbled beast as he was.

"Time to go, boy," the man said as he began to pull a stumbling Jess out the door.

The closing of the door behind them and that was it. Jess never turned to look back. Slim stood, holding onto the hat he'd been handed and fighting down an urge to stop the men from hauling Harper away. He doesn't deserve what he's got coming to him, were his thoughts. Although he knew his newfound friend's guilt, and he knew his own opinion didn't matter. Jess had been tried and convicted in a court of law and had confessed his involvement in the stagecoach robbery that resulted in two bystanders being wounded. But Slim had seen the man's true nature. The bravery and self-sacrifice the gunfighter was capable of. He vowed to himself once more that he would not give up on Jess. He would do everything he could for him from here on out.

"Go easy on Harper, now. He isn't one of the bad ones," Slim heard Mort say to the second guard who was finishing up the paperwork while the other hauled Jess out the door.

"Now, Sheriff, you know we don't treat none of 'em any different. We can't pick no favorites amongst the scum lot of 'em."

This response from the mean-looking guard made Mort furious. He grabbed the man by the front of his less than clean shirt and stared him down. "You get Harper to where he's goin' in better shape than he left here in, or I'll have your job. Do you hear me?"

The man held out his arms, palms out, and said, "Ease up, Sheriff. We ain't gonna do nothing to the man he don't already deserve. Meaning, he won't be harmed in no way, less he gives us reason for harm. We'll treat him just like the rest of the bunch we're hauling outta here."

Mort released the man's shirt. He wasn't satisfied, but his words would only carry so much weight. "I'll be checking, making sure Harper makes it to the prison in one good, healthy piece. If I hear any different, I'll be coming for you."

Slim could have wrapped Mort in a bear hug. He hoped the guard would heed the lawman's warning and go easy on Jess.

"You got it, Sheriff. We'll bed 'im down at night with a silk sheet and serve 'im champagne," the man replied sarcastically.

Mort stared him down. "You've been warned."

With that, the guard walked out the door, but not before leaving Mort with a nasty wink and smile.

Slim and Mort looked at each other, worry written across their faces. "Slim, you know I feel bad about Harper, and I know you feel like you owe him; we all do. He'll make it, though. He's tough, and he's smart." He pondered for a moment before speaking his thoughts out loud, "Trouble is, the ugly he's facing for the next three years is just starting, and it already looks that bad."

Worry and sadness clenched at Slim as he moved to the window to watch the wagon pull out of Laramie. Behind it, clouds of dust rose from the ground like phantoms from a graveyard.

Chapter 1

Horse and rider topped the hill above a lake. There was no hurry in the pace either set. The heat of an early summer sun eased its way through the rider's skin, working like ointment, penetrating deeply into tense, overwrought muscles. Atop a horse, and with the healing power of the bright and warm day, the man felt his body loosening, regressing from tautness to a more natural state of movement. The ice-like cage that trapped his soul was slowly easing its hold. Pain, loneliness, and sickness had torn at him for too long, and the toll of the suffering had weakened him, body, and spirit. He would need more time to heal but felt the medicine of the sun, his freedom, and the rhythmic sway of the horse working together as a salve.

Weariness consumed the man's healing body. Although they neared their destination and wouldn't need to travel much further, the travelers required rest as they reached the edge of the small lake. The companions: horse and rider, drank deeply, side by side from the stream that fed the larger, pristine body of water. From his squatted position overlooking the lake and stream, despite the protection of a hat, the man squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun. The deep color of his gaze beneath dark eyebrows mirrored the blue of the lake. He soaked in the beauty of the scene. The grass was green and lush here, while late spring flowers still held their blooms. Tree branches swayed lazily in the breeze, and the soft wind sent steady, gentle ripples across the surface of the water. His nearby horse, its dark coat the color of saddle-leather, chomped eagerly at the ground, and he breathed in the familiar and beloved smell of the animal. The man rose from his crouch, a blade of sweet grass between his teeth, and walked to a fallen and decayed tree near the water bank. The bed of green beneath him may just as well have been a sumptuous down mattress as he lay down, sinking into the comfort of the cushioned ground, shoulders and head resting against the log. The slow creek trickled and sang its soft song. Ripples teased the edges of the lake. Tipping his hat forward to shade the pale skin of his face, fatigue relaxed his limbs, and sleep overtook him.

The man slept deeply as the sun arced its way downward, now level with the horizon, spreading its fiery hues across the sky.

The ominous crack of a cocked rifle jerked the sleeper from tortured dreams where men screamed as whips laid open their backs. Following the jerk of his body, the arms of the now alarmed man froze inches from where they had pillowed the back of his head against the log. The hat he wore shielded his eyes, masking his face and serving as a blindfold.

"Uh, uh. Don't move." A voice echoed the sound of the rifle.

The wielder of the weapon moved closer to the supine man, approaching from behind him. "Hand me your gun." The firm command was followed by a warning: "Take it slow." The voice was confident and level. A pistol was handed to him, butt first. "This is private property. I'd like to know what you're doing here. You can get up, but take it real slow and easy."

Rising from the prone position, the shorter of the two men lifted the hat away from his face before turning around to face the one confronting him.

A broad grin cracked the face of the man behind the rifle as he dropped its barrel to point at the ground. "Jess Harper. I hoped it might be you but didn't really expect you on Sherman property until tomorrow."

Jess returned the smile. His own voice still sounded strange to him as he said, "It's been a while, Slim."

They shook hands affectionately before Slim grasped the smaller man by his shoulders in a warm welcome. They stood in silence for a brief time, letting the gravity of the moment and their reunion envelop them. Time and separation led them to feel like strangers, but both felt the bond of brotherhood that circumstances had failed to erode.

"It's good to have you here. We've done a heap of waiting. Daisy and Andy are hopping out of their skins, waiting to see you. Andy's been buzzing around like a fly that won't alight." Slim spoke with genuine happiness.

Jess ducked his head.

The swagger and confidence that Slim remembered about him seemed a distant memory.

"Look, Slim, I appreciate everything you've done for me. There ain't no real way for me to thank you proper. I feel like a real charity case."

"Uh, uh. You seem to forget what all you did for us. In case a year's time has wiped your memory clean, the three of us owe you our lives."

Their eyes met, blue on blue, and Slim was struck by his appearance. The man's cheeks were hollowed out; the bones of his pale, honed face were sharp against the skin that was tautly stretched over them. The faded and worn clothes he wore were too large, hanging on an emaciated body. Slim had visited Jess twice during his year-long incarceration. Both times, after seeing the physical deterioration of Inmate 72933, he had left heavy-hearted and worried that his friend would not survive his time inside.

"Three days in the sunlight hasn't done you much good. If you closed one eye, you'd fit through a needle. You look like you're starving to death, but I suppose the taste of freedom isn't enough to put meat on your bones by itself."

Jess saw the concern etched on Slim's face and battled for a moment with how to respond. He resented pity, but for someone who closely guarded any sign of weakness, there was something about Slim Sherman that compelled him to be candid. His mind flashed back to a moment when his emotions had been laid so bare that he had pleaded, "I can't." It was partly Slim's reassurance and the hope he provided after that instant of emotional nakedness that gave him the strength to survive many times in the torturous months following it.

"Truth is, I ain't hardly ate in three days. My pockets are pretty well cleaned out. Shot a rabbit last night for supper, and it helped to coat my bones some," he replied honestly.

Knowing his friend would hate pity and trying to shift the mood, Slim amiably slapped him on the shoulder before reminding himself how frail the man appeared. "Well, let's not waste any more time dreaming about supper. Daisy will have something good cooking by now. Let's head out. You can jaw my ear off on the way home."

Home. The word lodged in Jess's mind and stayed there as he lithely hopped on his beloved dark bay and followed Slim's lead back to the Sherman Ranch and Relay Station.

There was silence for a time between the two men as they rode. Slim wasn't quite sure how to break into the quiet that pervaded his friend. He had so much he wanted to ask him but didn't want to overstep. He knew Jess would need time, and likely a lot of it, to heal from the past year.

Jess had not usually been a quiet man. His mouth used to get him in as much trouble as his temper, and often the two had worked together to bury him neck-deep in discord. He had often cursed his big mouth that never seemed to shut until it was too late. But no talking amongst prisoners was a rule. He had rarely heard his own voice during his incarceration. Now, when he spoke aloud his thoughts, his voice was that of a stranger's, and every word seemed somehow unnecessary. How long, he wondered, will it take me to feel easy about talking again? Maybe he never would. For now, he was content to absorb the views of the ranch as they rode through it. The place was beautiful, and he marveled that its owner could run a spread this big on his own. Cattle spotted the hill they had just ridden over. The mineral-laden grass of the warm and fertile season was a bounty that had fattened the animals' bodies, making their movements languid and slow.

Slim understood the silence of the man riding beside him. He knew that it would take time before Jess was truly free from the cage that still had its figurative bars wrapped around him.

Instead of asking questions, Slim just talked. He pointed out different places that made up the lay of the ranch, who the neighbors were, how the livestock was doing. He spoke of Daisy, and how she was thrilled to finally see Jess again, and about how his younger brother Andy was so excited that he had not done any schoolwork in a week.

Finally, the two of them pulled up to the rustic and inviting house. Slim slid off his horse and met the eyes of his companion and immediately saw the hesitation and nervousness that rested there. "Welcome home, Pard."

Those words slammed into Jess's heart, trying to find permanence there. It was difficult for him to accept that Slim was offering him not only a home but also his friendship. He was already obliged to the man for so much. If it had not been for Slim and Mort Cory, the sheriff of Laramie, Jess would still have another two years to serve in the Wyoming Territorial Prison. Two more years may as well be a life sentence, knowing he would not survive them. As it was, after only a year of what was originally a three-year sentence, the shell of him had walked out of the iron doors a fragile imitation of who he had been before going inside. The changes he had undergone were both physical and mental.

Before the two of them made it inside the ranch house, Daisy met them at the door. Without hesitation, she wrapped his thin body in a hug and echoed Slim's words, "Welcome home, Jess."

Shrouded in Daisy's kind arms, Jess struggled for words and battled with the emotions threatening to break him down. Not since his own family, who had all been buried during his early teen years, had Jess ever had someone welcome him home. The gratefulness that swelled inside of him threatened his composed exterior, but what kept him in check was own continual reminder that he did not deserve the kindness of these two good people.

Daisy held him at arm's length and fussed over how thin he was. Through all of the tsk-tsk and regard paid to him, it was clear that she would have him good and fattened up in no time, starting with the evening's nearly ready dinner.

Weaker with hunger than he would ever admit, he was nearly knocked over by the boy who ran to him and encircled arms around his waist. Jess was in disbelief at the uninhibited show of affection. He was practically a stranger to this kid and a criminal at that. The first and last time he had met Andy, a year ago, he had been in chains and was en route to prison. The boy had no cause to hug him, but the gesture mended some of the deep wounds inside him.

"Hey, Tiger." He smiled down at the boy who looked up at him with blatant hero-worship painted on the canvas of his face. "It sure is good to see you. Looks like you growed about a foot since I seen you last. Hey. I almost forgot!" Although he had not forgotten, not even for a moment, but had envisioned the boy's happiness upon receiving the gift a hundred times over, so deep was his longing for the friendship of the Sherman household. "I brought you a little somethin'." Jess moved back to his horse and pulled a small bag of candy from the saddlebag. "If Slim don't mind you having tooth-rot, I hope you like candy."

Andy grinned joyously and said, "Yippee! Are you kidding? Licorice is my favorite. Thanks, Jess!"

Slim smiled over Andy's joyful welcome and wondered at the man who had probably spent the last of what little money he had on that candy while going hungry himself. "No, Jess, I don't mind. Just remember, I'll take what I'll owe the dentist to fix his tooth-rot out of your wages."

Grinning at the prodding from his new boss, he said, "You do that, Slim."

"Not until after supper, young man," Daisy said as Andy was about to pop a piece of the bright red candy in his mouth.

Nose wrinkling in disappointment, Andy grumbled at this and at her orders to go wash up for the dinner table but scurried away to do as he was told.

Jess followed Slim to the rebuilt barn to put up the horses. Memories of his single eventful evening at the Sherman ranch a year ago flooded through him. "New barn looks good, Slim, but still needs a paint job."

"They hanged him, you know? Percy Blake," Slim said, prompted by the memory of the destroyed barn.

"So I heard. Best use of a rope I can think of," Jess replied but thought of the dying sounds a hanged man makes. Terrible sounds.

"No argument there."

Slim slapped the raw wood of the barn's door frame as they passed through it, casting a smile at Jess. "I was kinda hopin' my new hired hand was good at painting."

Jess groaned but returned the smile and said, "I'm willin' to do any job you say, boss." He sincerely meant it, too.

All joking aside, Slim's tone was serious and ardent. "Jess, I want you to understand something while you're here. I know we feel like strangers to you. We all hardly know each other, but Daisy and I agree that we don't want you here as just a hired hand. We want you to be our friend, to be part of our family."

They had made it inside the barn and began to unsaddle as Slim spoke. Jess never expected anything like this from him. He was hugely in the man's debt for petitioning the governor on his behalf for an early release, for offering him a job, and agreeing to have him live at the Sherman Ranch as a condition of his parole. In fact, not only was he nearly a stranger to the man, but because of his parole, he was also in his custody. The rancher's kind words were shocking to him in light of those facts, and he did not know how to respond.

"Slim, I…"

Arms draped across the back of his unsaddled horse, Slim locked eyes with the broken down, former gunfighter he faced. "Listen, Jess, I get the feeling that you think you owe me, that I'm doing you a favor, but I guess I'll keep reminding you until it sinks into that thick skull of yours." He paused for a smile, then pointed at his chest before turning his finger to point at Jess. "It's me who owes you."

"I sure don't feel that way, Slim. I mean, about who's beholden to who. I'd of died there in that pit if you and the sheriff hadn't spent the last year a mile deep in paper, and brown-nosin', working on getting me out." The moment was suddenly too raw, so he tore away his gaze and rubbed vigorously at Traveler's withers as he added, "Leastways, I've about forgotten what it feels like to be a friend. That sort of thing ain't exactly encouraged when you're a convict."

"Feeling at ease with us will take time. And me, Daisy, and Andy are gonna be here to help you remember what it's like to be a free man and a friend. Now let's quit jabbering. I dunno about you, but I'm about famished for supper."

Inside the oven-warmed shadows of the house, manners temporarily set aside, Jess dove into the food in front of him as he sat at the table. Daisy and Slim could not help their pitying glances at each other. The man not only looked as though he was starving; he ate that way as well.

It was the first real meal he'd had in more days than he could count that was not the mash they served in prison. It dawned on him, midway through the third helping of chicken and dumplings, that his last real meal had been right at this same kitchen table.

Chapter 2

Silver dew draped a shimmery blanket over the green grass alongside the rutted road as the two rode out the next morning. The sheriff was expecting their visit, and they hoped to catch him still in his office. Slim gently prodded Jess with a few questions while they rode. "Did you have any trouble getting your horse back?"

"Nope, I took the stage to Rawlins, not knowing if Traveler would still be there. I had the stage drop me off in the hills before we got to town, though. I'd buried my gun and all my savings in a box beside a tree before surrendering to Coltrane. Half expected it to be gone when I got there. My gun is in bad shape after staying buried that long, but nothing a good cleanin' won't fix. I hoofed it on foot back into town, and pretty much couldn't believe that the old stable man still had my horse there waiting on me." Jess quieted after this as the two neared town. The relief and joy he felt after reuniting with his horse still closed down his throat. He had wanted to wrap his arms around Traveler and the old man who kept him for a year but paid the pinch-faced stableman what he promised instead, which amounted to all of the money he had to his name.

The two rode silently and listened to the sing-songs of the morning birds as they neared town.

"As I live and breath, it's Jess Harper in the flesh and walking free," Mort warmly greeted as he rose from his paperwork-laden desk, centered in the middle of the room. The two men had just entered his office. The smell of coffee brewing was a constant whenever Mort was around, and the pleasant aroma met them as they stepped inside.

Everything that Mort stood for as an officer of the law intimidated the freshly released felon, as did his reason for visiting the man. Mort's friendly greeting helped waylay some of his worries as the sheriff shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. Friendliness aside, he still found himself swallowing hard before speaking. "Sir...Sheriff. Good to see you too."

"Now, Jess, remember, I told you to call me Mort. Seems to me you're a day early. Wasn't expecting you 'til tomorrow. They let you out early for good behavior?"

Mort's eyes twinkled as he asked the question. The man had a pleasant smile to go along with his sense of humor. His demeanor effortlessly commanded respect and obedience, notwithstanding his friendliness and warmth. If Andy hero-worshipped Jess, the same was certainly true for the reformed gunfighter who held deep admiration, to go along with the trepidation, for the authoritative figure before him.

Jess ducked his head and smiled at the joke, despite feeling a twinge of humiliation. He had been released early, but not just by a day. His sentence was cut short by two years and had Mort and Slim to thank for that.

"Listen, Sher...uh...Mort." His deep voice still sounded unnaturally husky, a consequence of poorly exercised vocal cords. "I already tried to explain to Slim here how beholden I am to ya. I reckon I owe you both just about two years of my life. Truth is, I'm indebted to ya for more than that. I'd not of made it another two years in that place."

"I would like for you not to look at it that way, Jess. I mean, you owing us anything."

"I tried explaining that too, Mort," Slim interjected, a smile spreading across his face. "Seems like wool-brains here can't get it through his thick skull, though."

It was so long since anyone had joked around with Jess; he had almost forgotten how to respond. The still unfamiliar sensation of a smile played at his lips as he responded to Slim's jab, "Hey now. Go easy."

Mort knew the two men had a long way to go before they would know each other well, but he appreciated Slim's attempt to keep things lighthearted. Despite his insistence that Harper owed them nothing, Mort did know the man had a lot to prove, and parole would not be easy. He crossed his arms, rested against his desk, and smiled at Slim's friendly dig.

"Before you two start sticking burrs under each other's saddles, let's get some important things out of the way, shall we? First off, Slim, you gotta get this boy some food. Looks to me like your belly button is rubbin' your backbone, Jess. But I figure Miss Daisy will take fattening you up some like it's her personal mission in life. Second. Slim, I've told you before that I appreciate you stepping up and being willing to take Jess on, though I know you wouldn't have it any other way." He directed his sharp gaze at Jess, "Last, I've drawn up some of my own conditions of your parole, alongside what the state's already lined out for you. I'll go over it with both of you since Slim is going to be responsible for you."

Jess's nerves were strung banjo wire tight while Mort poured each of them a cup of coffee, retrieved from the potbelly stove in the corner of the room. Chairs were dragged to his desk, and the three eased down into them. It took effort for him to relax enough to sit when his inclination was to stand at attention in respect of this figure of law and order who held a tremendous amount of power over him. He's not the warden, and you're not in prison, Harper. Nervously, he ran his naturally active fingers around the brim of the hat in his hands as he reminded himself of his status as a free man. Well, almost free.

"Alright, Jess, all friendliness aside now. You've got to understand that you can't mess up with this. You get one strike against the conditions of your parole, and the state of Wyoming, myself, or Slim can all toss you right back where you just came from to finish out your sentence there. While I can promise that I will do my best to judge fairly, I can also promise that I will hold no quarter. If you mess up or provide the provocation, your roaming free days will be nipped in the bud so swiftly your head will spin."

Quieting his nerves enough to speak, Jess willed his eyes to not waver as they met the sheriff's daunting gaze. He responded, "Yes, sir. That is, sure. I understand, Mort. I'll toe whatever line you draw for me. I'll not be going back there." Jess meant it, too, perhaps more than he had ever meant anything before. He knew his life depended on making this work because he would die before going back to prison. He didn't care what kind of humble pie he might have to eat as a parolee; he would make it work. Feeling as though he owed these two men was an unshakable notion, as well. Doing right by them was a commitment he would devote himself to with every ounce of Harper strength and determination.

Mort looked at him squarely and said, "See you do that, son. Just tread light and easy." He flipped open a folder on his desk and summarized what it said. "Of course you know, the state has released you into Slim's custody as a parolee for the next twelve months. For starters, during that time, you are not allowed a firearm on your person. No exceptions."

Jess at once felt drained of blood. The gun belt strapped around his waist felt like a branding iron left in the coals of a hot fire for too long.

"Sheriff, I didn't know."

He couldn't rid himself of the offending weapon fast enough and was already unstrapping the belt as he spoke. Eagerly, he handed over to Mort the pearl-handled Colt that had once meant so much to him, even defined him. His heart thudded in his chest as frantically as a bird trying to escape through a glass windowpane.

Mort eyed him. "Take a deep breath, son. I know it, and it will be the last time I let you get away with it. I'll be keeping this for you until your parole is up." The gun and belt were subsequently locked in a drawer of the scratch-marked desk.

Jess had already made a mistake that jeopardized his freedom. He pondered how challenging the next twelve months were going to be. There would be no room for error.

Mort continued, "Slim is your boss. Anything he tells you to do, you do it without question or hesitation. You are never to leave the Sherman Ranch for any reason without his permission. Both of you will meet with me twice a month to make sure everything is running smoothly. I'll have to fill out a form and send it to the parole board after every meeting. Jess, there will be no fighting or any type of reckless behavior. There will be zero tolerance for it. You keep your head down, your back turned to any trouble, and keep swallowing your pride, and you'll make it through this. You'll have to follow Slim's orders to the letter. He's holding the reins on this."

Jess swallowed hard, again. Despite the sheriff's proffered friendship, the man was stern. There was no doubt he would yank his freedom out from under him if he so much as blew his nose wrong. Mort Cory was by the book and put the law above his personal feelings. He was so tired of the constant hollow pit in his stomach, the pervasive sense of shame he felt as Jess Harper: Convict. Would there ever be freedom from it? Lifting his head to speak, he said, "Sheriff, I ain't gonna mess this up. I'll do right by you and Sherman here."

At that, Mort slapped the folder shut. His demeanor softened. "Welcome back, Jess. I mean that."

Some welcome.

Jess was quiet and clench-jawed on the ride back to the ranch.

Slim interjected into his thoughts. "Mort was tough back there, Jess. I told you before how I feel about this arrangement. I'm taking you on not just as a hired hand, but as a friend, too. You've more than earned my trust, and I'll never forget what you did for us last year. We want you to feel like part of the family. You're gonna get sick of hearing me say that, but I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. "

A patch of hard sunlight broke through the clouds as Jess pulled Traveler to a stop. Slim followed suit.

"Look, Slim, I think it's best if we keep the personal stuff outta this and just get through it. It ain't that I don't appreciate everything you're offering me, but you heard what all Mort said back there." His voice was laced with self-revulsion, edging toward bitterness as he continued, "You're my boss, and I aim to eat crow to make this thing work. It'll be easier on me if we keep it all business-like since you're holding the reins on my life and the key to my freedom."

Slim wheeled his horse around to face stony blue eyes and straightened up tall in the saddle like he had something important to say. "Dang it, Jess. Quit feeling sorry for yourself."

Jess jerked his head, angry as Slim continued. "We're in this together. No way am I just gonna be your boss. And I'm sure as heck not gonna run a prison. I'm no warden. You'll be my friend, whether you like it or not. Now, let's quit dallying and worrying and get back. We've got a stage coming in an hour, and I've got a list of chores as long as my arm. First one back to the ranch gets the pick of the easy ones." He grinned, spurred his horse, and left a thoughtful Jess in the dust.

I'll be danged if the man ain't right about that pity-party. Buck up, Harper, ya got nothin' to complain about.

Chapter 3

The following summer months were the best of Jess Harper's life. The days were long, and the work was hard, but the reward was worth more than all of that gold the 49rs dug out of the California hills. He threw himself into the work at the ranch. The place had never looked better. The branding was caught up, as was the fencing, an ongoing job that Slim had never seen completed in all his years on the spread. The gunfighter turned convict had turned out to be a top hand. As Jess labored, Slim observed his half-tamed litheness, a concomitant of a wild way of living. His mercurial method of movement and labor spoke of toughness and survival. The two men worked side-by-side, each admiring the other's work ethic and the wrangling experience they had gained from lives spent cowboying. Jess worked harder and more determinedly than he ever had. As a result, he was strong and fit. His once pale face became darkened by the sun. The unconventional family he lived with taught him how to be free again, love, and open his heart to genuine friendship. As a result, the trappings of shame, regret, and violence flaked away, fading to faint remnants and reminders like the now barely visible marks left by the chains worn around his legs. Ease had settled over him, a sense of security and safety, unlike any he had experienced in his adult years. Having been forced to hang up his six-shooter played a large role in that notion of security. So much of his life had been spent with a finger on the trigger, his death, or the death of whichever man he faced, balanced on how quickly he pulled that trigger.

No more war, no more drifting, no more prison, no more gunfights. Finally, an end to all of the death.

As the summer months began to slip into early autumn, the Sherman Ranch was thriving, as were the people who occupied it and poured their sweat into its operation. The bond between Jess and the three who poured out to him their friendship grew, and every day those relationships chipped away at the darkness inside him. His heart was light, and the long displaced notion of joy became his dominant sentiment. Without having to wear the hard veneer of a gunfighter, nor bear the shame of a convict, he was free to be the Jess Harper he was intended to be. Life had given him a second chance. He recognized that his boss (Slim really hated that title, and Jess used it every so often just to get his hackles up) worked hard to help him in his beaten-down state to lighten up and enjoy life. So, with this newly discovered and developing happiness, he was beginning to give Slim and his constant fooling around a run for his money.

To his knowledge, none of his old enemies, or even friends, knew where he was. He was supposed to still be in prison. Nevertheless, he was always cautious when the stage pulled up to the relay station and would hang back with the fresh team of horses by the barn until he knew there was no one on board that might recognize Jess Harper: Gunhawk.

As the days bled into each other and the season progressed, a cool wind spilled off the distant mountains and rolled its way over Sherman land. It brought with it the smell of wet creosote and pine. Clouds mustered in from the north, their bellies slate-grey and incubating.

It wasn't that he let his guard down that afternoon, somber as it was, beneath the clouds. As was his practice, he was doing his best to stay out of sight until the passengers disembarked and he could look them over. As if brought in with the ill wind from the mountains, a familiar Texas twang caught his attention, and he whirled around to face a particular traveler who had just stepped out of the coach. For a brief moment, both men appeared wary as obvious recognition dawned across their features. Seconds passed before they were all smiles, closing the distance between them, followed by excited greetings, and thumps on the back. Finally stepping back from each other, the taller and wirier of the two said, "If it ain't the ace-high, Jess Harper, alive and in the flesh." An eyebrow cocked inquisitively as he continued, "Not only are ya not dead, but ya ain't locked up? Either way, you're sure a sight for these sore eyes'a mine."

His excitement at seeing an old friend was obvious as Jess replied, "You old son of a gun. Cherry Darby. Last time I saw you, you were growin' a beard on that baby face of yours." He added, "Amarillo, and that cantina we wrecked with Charlie. Waco, with a dozen Texas Rangers after us," before completing his first reminiscent thought.

Slim watched the interaction between the two men as he set to disconnecting the team. The man was a stranger to him, but clearly an old friend of Jess. A few things were obvious. The man's accent was a dead-ringer for Jess's Texas one. There were other similarities, too. They were both lady-killer handsome, but where Jess had dark hair, blue eyes, and a smaller frame, the other was tall and lanky, with brown eyes and wavy, sand brown hair. They looked roughly the same age, and the taller of them had a boyish charm about him, complete with a wide, white-toothed grin that dimpled his cheeks. What gave Slim pause, though, was the way the stranger wore his gun belt. It hung low on slender hips, and it was tied down at the thigh. The polished and worn handle of the holstered six-shooter was further evidence that the man was a gun for hire. He considered these things as the two continued to share brief snippets from a collective past, sharing rapid-fire boasts about escapades just shy of the law. Jess rarely talked about his history, and Slim was fascinated with the tales he was hearing. At the same time, he tried not to make it obvious that he was eavesdropping.

"What're you doin' around these parts, anyway?" The question came from Cherry, who suddenly sobered and followed his question by saying, "But, honest, Jess, I thought you were in the hoosegow. Leastways, that's the last I heard…" He leaned in closer with a hand to Jess's shoulder. With a glance at Slim and the stage driver, who were both out of earshot for a whisper, he spoke quietly. "Heard you robbed a stagecoach. You didn't bust outta prison, did ya? You on the run, amigo?"

"That news travel all the way down to the home state?" Jess asked with a grin and a flick of the hand to Cherry's stomach. "I ain't runnin', Cherry. I'm paroled." He paused as though suddenly remembering something important. "Hey! I gotta introduce you to Slim, here. Slim!" He called excitedly. As Slim approached, he continued, "If it weren't for Ol' Hardrock here, I would still be locked up. It's him I have to thank for gettin' out early. "Cherry, I'd like for you to meet my boss, Slim Sherman."

The two men of equal height shook hands, clearly happy to meet as mutual acquaintances of Jess.

"Hate to break up the social club, ladies, but we gotta get the stage movin'. Five minutes 'till pull out!" Scotty yelled to them and interrupted from beside the stage.

"I'm sure happy to meet a friend of Jess," Slim said. A cheesy grin broke across his features before he turned to move back to the stage. "Anybody who can put up with him," he jerked a thumb at Jess, "deserves one of those medals for bravery they were so stingy with handing out after the war." He trotted back to Scotty, calling louder than was necessary, "Coming, grandpa. Don't get your longjohns in a knot," to the driver.

"Hate we ain't got time to catch up, Cherry. You stickin' around Laramie? Where ya headed?"

"I am. Seems we'll be able to trade ancient history and owlhoot stories after all. Landed me a cow punchin' job at the Bar W.'' As if suddenly weary, Cherry's shoulders sagged, and he stared at the ground before speaking once more. "Jess, I'm tired of bein' fiddle-footed. I'm ready to settle down and ride for the brand. I've been a tumbleweed too long. I wanna quit livin' by the gun, ya know? I've kindly worn the shine off'a makin' my wage that way. I've been locked up down in Willow Springs for the last month, finally got out with nothing to my name but a small stake. Enough to buy a stage ride outta there. A friend a'mine landed me this job, and I aim to stick with it this time. No more ridin' and gunnin', Jess."

The passengers had started to climb back into the stage as Cherry finished. The two shook hands once more before parting. The Bar W shared a fence line with the Sherman Ranch. They knew they would be seeing each other around.

Before they parted ways, Cherry said, "It does a body good to see a wild man like you, pullin' in his horns and settle'n his ways, old friend. I'd like to do the same. You and me, we ain't short of luck when we get second chances dropped in our laps. Remember what Charlie used to say? That it don't matter the bad he's done, long as he ain't a murderer or horse thief, every man deserves a second chance, but keep an eye on the lucky ones who get it.'"

Slim heard Cherry's parting words, and he paused to consider what they meant about both of these reformed, dangerous men.

Chapter 4

In an effort to go unnoticed and definitely to stay out of trouble, Jess had avoided weekend trips into Laramie until about a month prior. But now, he and Slim frequented the saloon on Saturday nights, without fail. Before their earliest visit to the establishment, Jess had almost forgotten the simple pleasure of hands wrapped around a foamy mug of beer and the taste of the drink as it slid down his throat. Kinda thirst-quenching. His fingers itched to deal in at the poker tables, but night after Saturday night, he had abstained. Past experience taught him that saloon poker games and Jess Harper were a wicked combination and a whole mess of trouble stirring in a pot. Poker and beer were hardly the only enticements, however. The real draw to the Silver Dollar was a sweet little saloon gal named Tris. The pretty thing lit his fire. He reasoned that since they both had soiled pasts and were not precisely clean as a whistle even now, they were a gold nugget match for each other. Not just that, but she was good. Really good. Her pretty face matched her charitable heart, he thought. She was sweet and kind. Not necessarily the Sunday-go-to-meeting type, considering her occupation. Nonetheless, she had the goodheartedness of a girl he could take to church. That is if they both wouldn't be tarred and feathered for stepping inside the holy doors, considering the weight of their combined sins. He would find out soon enough-about the tar and feathers-he figured because Daisy had been hard on his case for months about joining them for Sunday worship, and she was starting to wear him down. Daisy was a mighty insistent woman, and he would have to cave and go soon-take his chances with a lightning strike from above upon entering the sacred building. Tris, well, he had not met another girl like her. Those big brown eyes of hers melted his insides. She made him happy. He was hooked, not ready for a ball and chain hooked, but he was spending too much time thinking about how her smile made her cheeks dimple, and that was just for starters. There was a whole lot more he thought about her too.

Slim had taken to prodding him about Tris all week long until Saturday because it was a sure-fire way to get a rise out of his friend. The day before, Jess had landed a solid kick to Slim's tail after he had mouthed off about the budding relationship. The two of them were mending a fence, and the thumb of Jess's left hand took a solid wack from his own hammer, turning the nail bed blue. He did a little agony dance and was giving trying not to cuss a blue storm a solid go when Slim piped up. "Dang, Jess. I think I know what your problem is. You've got yourself a serious case of petticoat fever. Why, if Mort were to give you your shooter back, you'd likely blow your foot off with it, the way you're thinking about that sweet dove all the time and not heeding what you're doing." Slim's mouthful of free advice came too soon on the heels of the hammer blow.

"Oh, you're just settin' up and beggin' for it, ain't ya? Jess was still hurting, and the cackling blonde was standing too close. He landed a solid kick to his pard's skinny backside with the same foot he'd likely blow off. The moment of impact was quite satisfying. Target met, he lit out at a run for the horses, Slim hot on his heels.

So, on Saturday night, sporting a black thumbnail, Jess found himself belly to the bar, downing his third beer of the evening. Every so often, the bartender came around every little bit to grouse at Tris to make her rounds.

"Harper is not the only cowboy buying drinks, and I'm not paying you to hang on his neck all night."

"Sorry, Ben. It ain't her fault; it's mine. I'll drink one more round and beat it," Jess jumped in after about the fifth time the bartender griped at Tris. He was starting to worry that the attention they were paying each other would cost her her job.

Before detaching himself from her tiny waist, he toyed with a springy dark curl, tucking it behind her ear. The darkness and size of his hand contrasted with her fragile, long neck as he lightly ran his thumb the length of her throat. Her brown eyes were flecked with golden-green that shimmered like copper coins on the bed of a sunlit creek. "We're gonna have to come up with other ways to see each other, looks like. Ol' Ben is gonna have me throwed out if we don't cool our heels."

Moving in closer to him, her hands played with the buttons of his shirt before running dainty fingers upward to tip back his hat. Her sweet, delicate scent softened his insides, and for a moment, the bawdy sounds of the saloon faded for both of them. She kissed him and then pouted her soft lips. "Okay, cowboy. Just don't make me wait too long, now."

In a sashaying display of sequins and creamy skin, she moved away to do her job. Jess tore his eyes off the beautiful girl for a minute to study the amber liquid in his glass. It felt a little strange not to have Slim nearby. It was the first time his friend, keeper, more like, had left him alone in the place. Before parting ways, the blond rancher told him to stay out of trouble. "Who? Me?" He responded. As if trouble and Jess Harper had anything to do with each other these days. He had toed a straight and narrow line for months now. No way would he do anything to jeopardize his parole. Nope, the Harper of old was rightly and truly hogtied. He had traded his wayward ways for domeziticy...domesticy...Heck, he was saddle broke.

Slim was eating dinner with Mort at the café across the street. They had tried to talk Jess into joining them. However, aside from his hankering for an eyeful and an armful of Tris, the sheriff still made him so dadblasted nervous. He never could get his words out right around the man. It was just about painful for him to meet the lawman's eyes, which always drew him up short, even though he had to admit they were nothing but kind most of the time. He couldn't help it. Mort made him feel like a kid whose pa was about to haul him by the collar to the woodshed to get his shirttails dusted.

"She sure is a pretty filly, ain't she?" Jess's friend Cherry spoke from beside him at the bar, interrupting his thoughts. He had seen the man the last two Saturday nights at the place. As promised, he had settled in and taken that wrangler job at the Bar W Ranch, a big spread that shared a long stretch of fence line with the Sherman place.

Jess took another drink. "Still ain't used to you being around here, Cherry. The two of us living peaceful and settled just don't seem to fit. Never thought I'd see the day one or both of us wouldn't be livin', or dying by the gun."

Cherry leaned his elbows on the bar. He was all long limbs and lankiness next to the dark-haired cowboy's more compact form. "Yep, hard to figure either one of us would have lived this long." An edge of concern made its way into his voice. "It don't make you antsy walkin' into this place naked? An old gunhawk like you? One of these days, somebody's gonna walk in here lookin' to put a bullet in you when word finally gets out you're around these parts." Cherry's hand drifted habitually to rest on the gun butt holstered and tied low to his thigh.

The two of them turned away from the bar, frothy glasses in hand, before leaning back on their elbows. Neither Texan considered how they mirrored each other's actions.

"Far as carrying my piece, you know that ain't my choice, compadré. 'Sides, with your carcass watching my back, I got nothing to worry about. Ain't I right?" He slapped his friend's flat belly and grinned, despite the truth of what the man said.

"Heard Ben running you off'a Tris's tail. Not hard to tell she's got it bad for you. One thing's for sure, you ain't lost your touch with the fairer sex. Like a bear to honey. It ain't me courtin' the prettiest thing in town when you're around." His face was cut with an affable grin. "Not fair, loverboy."

The midnight blue of his eyes danced as Jess said, "that's about the most righteous thing to ever come outta your mouth, Cherry. Remember what Charlie used to say? 'All's fair in love and war.' Still ain't sure what that means, but it seems fittin'." Jess was still beaming. "Leastways, as far as Tris is concerned, I figure she was looking for a clean-cut all-American boy, took one look at me, dove in, and still ain't come up for air."

Cherry snorted and chuckled, and it was his turn to smack his friend's stomach. "Play a hand a poker with me, Jess. Seems to me you need to be taken down a notch or two, shootin' your mouth off like that. Me fleecin' your pockets and whupping you in a game will have you eatin' crow just like the old days when I'd clean you out at the tables."

Jess laughed in response, enjoying the camaraderie their old friendship provided. "All that truth-telling, and now you're lying through your pearly whites. I'm about to line my pockets with two months of your earnings."

Letting his guard down for the first time in months, Jess couldn't resist the challenge. He followed Cherry's saunter to the nearest table, and the two of them sat down with the three others playing cards.

It felt good to be back at the game. Jess was a good poker player-always had been. Playing the game was something he had missed. It wasn't long, just a few more downed beers, before he had a nice little stockpile of winnings set up in front of him.

Cherry didn't last long. "Too rich for my blood, boys." He stood and momentarily rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Jess, I don't wanna give you the satisfaction of buying beers for the foreseeable future off my hard-earned dollars. I'll leave y'all to it."

Jess promised to buy him a drink after playing a few more hands.

Al Tillman, the foul-smelling player to his right, was getting tired of losing, tossing down shots of whiskey that fueled his already lousy temper. Jess knew it was time to pull out of the game before the drunk decided to take his poor loser attitude and anger out on him.

He played a final hand before addressing everyone at the table. "Appreciate ya letting me deal in at your table, but I promised I'd buy my friend there a drink," he spoke as he reached for the messy pile of winnings in the center.

"Not so fast, pretty boy." The whiskey drinker dropped a meaty hand on Jess's that lay on top of the money. The smells of heavy liquor and old sweat steamed off of his body. "Don't seem right for you to pull out now and not let us win some of that back, now does it? 'Sides, how're we s'posed to know a jailbird like you ain't cheatin' us?" He spit a sick brown stream of tobacco on the floor.

Blazes, Harper, this is why you don't deal in at the poker table, he reminded himself. Alarm bells were going off in his head. This was precisely the kind of trouble he needed to avoid.

"Alright, fella, take it easy. Don't want to leave ya with your tender feelin's hurt. Shut your smart mouth, Harper, he thought. Parole. Prison, he reminded himself, struggling to tack down his temper and the words that in his previous life, he would have let have full rein. Díos, my dadgum trouble-making smart mouth is coming out of hibernation with a vengeance. He backtracked a little, trying to smooth over his sarcastic response. The jaundiced eyes of All Tillman looked murderously at him. That alarm bell again: Trouble. "How about you boys let me buy you a drink, huh?"

The drunk finally let go of his hand. "Make it a whiskey, convict."

Easy, Jess. This one's itchin' for a fight. He had a good handle on the anger he felt rising to the surface, or so he thought.

"And have that pretty little thing you were pokin' round with at the bar bring it here."

His blood boiled at the slurred words that began to spew from Tillman's tobacco-stained mouth. His hands clenched into fists as he visualized flattening the pocked, greasy nose of the filth across the table who launched into a description of the sick games he planned to play with Tris upstairs after the poker game.

"Shut your filthy mouth," Jess growled out. A deadly rage turned his eyes ice-cold. His caution was all but forgotten.

The others at the table scooted their chairs back. A few drinkers and card players at nearby tables began to take notice of the confrontation taking place.

The man continued his litany, but all Jess was registering was that this yellow dog planned to hurt Tris. Another mouthful of filth and threat to the girl was released before Jess exploded. There was no spitting in hands or balled fists raised in threat to precede the launching of his right fist into the man's nose. He felt the bones of that nose crush beneath his hand. With a crash, Tillman collapsed backward in his chair, immediately knocked unconscious from an overabundance of alcohol, coupled with the blow to his face. Jess was still seeing red and jumped onto the man, landing a few more punches to the bloodied face on the floor. A hand grabbed at him from behind. He turned from his kneeling position above the body on the floor and snarled, "Back off!" to the person tugging at his shoulder. It was Cherry.

Cherry's concerned and familiar face snapped Jess from his wrath. What have I done? No sooner had the thought entered his mind when he heard Slim's voice.

"Jess?"

A terrible hush fell over the saloon. Even the slightest sounds seemed muted in the heavy haze of cigarette smoke that lingered in the room. All activities had ceased after the loud crash from Tillman's body making contact with the floor.

Clambering to his feet, Jess swiped a bloodied and trembling hand across his face as he turned to face his friend. His chest heaved from adrenaline and the exertion of beating Tillman's face to ground meat. A cold pit grew in his stomach. Just having entered the saloon, standing next to Slim, was Sheriff Mort Cory. His insides twisted like a wet rag wrung out in a woman's hands. Instant panic gripped him. He was done. He had violated his parole. The sheriff told him he would hold no quarter. He would send him back to prison.

"Back off!" Jess repeated his last words, but this time they were panic-driven and directed toward Mort. His eyes were wild and dangerous.

Slim could not believe the scene playing out before him. Overwhelming concern for the future of his best friend immediately tore at him. Jess had clearly beaten a man senseless, and in the aftermath, now stood in the middle of the room, all eyes directed toward him. Blood dripped from balled fists, and Slim flashed back to another time when his friend's feral anger was directed toward him; his fists had been bloodied then, too, with Coltrane's blood.

Mort took a step forward. "Now, Jess…," he started to speak calmly.

"I said, back off, Sheriff." The words repeated for a third time came out low and fierce.

Jess was still not thinking beyond the cold fear he felt. It was not like he could stop Mort from approaching. The cornered man's eyes darted to the back of the saloon, glancing at the stairs then to the back exit.

Both Slim and Mort registered the fear that had taken possession of their friend, taking note of his quick glance around the room. He was going to bolt and run.

From the floor, Tillman was beginning to show signs of regaining consciousness.

"Jess. Take it easy. Don't try anything stupid. You run now; it's over for you. You know that. Let's talk this out. There's no reason to panic just yet." Mort spoke calmly, trying to make eye contact with Jess, whose eyes were still darting around the room. Wild and feral, the man was coiled and could explode into devastating action if anyone so much as spit in a spittoon.

Thank God he doesn't have a gun, Slim thought but was instantly sick with dread that he would grab someone's pistol in the room. If that happened, there would be no hope for him. There was no question that Jess would rather die than go back to prison.

Mort must have been thinking along the same lines because he addressed the whole room. "Everybody back up and give him some space." Collectively, those closest to Jess stepped away from him, except for Cherry. The former gunslinger stood his ground. His concern for Jess was obvious.

His eyebrows were drawn down, and his lips were set in a thin line, but his voice was flat and emotionless as he said, "You're gonna arrest me?" This was both a question and a statement. He knew Mort's answer.

Feeling slight relief, Mort thought maybe Jess was beginning to think a little more clearly. He held up a calming hand like he was approaching a trapped, wild mustang. "Not for now. For now, I want you to try and release some of that steam you got inside. There's no place to run to, and you've got no reason for it. All we're gonna do straight out the chute is take a walk over to my office and talk over what's happened here. For all I know, you fought that man on the floor in self-defense. We'll talk, then we'll go from there. But Jess," he paused, "you gotta come easy, now. You can't fight it. Why don't you start walking toward me and Slim here."

In the instant that Slim wondered if maybe Mort's assurances had gotten through to him, Jess bolted. He was heading for the back door.

"No, no, no, no!" Slim yelled in quick sequence as he sprang into action, chasing after his friend whom he feared would be gunned down in the escape attempt.

Jess didn't make it far. Cherry had watched every move and was ready to pounce on the desperate man the minute he twitched. He jumped after him, tackling him to the ground. Jess hit the floor with a solid crack but immediately twisted to his back in Cherry's hold to land a punch to his jaw. Slim made it to the two tussling on the floor and grabbed hold of Jess's right arm. Jess bucked and shoved Cherry off his chest with his free arm and then swung it around at Slim. The fist grazed his ear. Mort made it to the ruckus on the floor and pinned the outnumbered man's legs as the three flipped him onto his belly. The pinned man let out a strangled growl that was almost a scream. He still tried to buck at the three who pressed all of their weight down on him. Slim and Cherry each had an arm twisted and held to his back. They wrenched harder than they would have liked. Neither wanted to hurt their friend.

Tris watched the scene unfold from across the room. Her face was stitched with concern. She clutched the whiskey bottle she had been serving with a grip tight enough to shatter the glass.

With his face pressed to the floor, Jess dragged in ragged, dust-filled breaths. Putting immense effort into the attempt, he tried to grab hold of rationality and settle down. He tried to acknowledge that he was trapped, but doing so was beyond him. Pure instinct was driving him, and that instinct screamed to break loose of the tight hold of the men and escape the room. This could not be happening. He could not go back to prison. A graveled, growl of desperation escaped his lips once more.

"Alright, Jess. I'll give you the count of three to settle down so I won't have to put cuffs on you. Please, son, try and cool down." He began his count, and the squirming eased slightly. Slim felt it and loosened the hold he had on his right arm. He shouldn't have. Jess tried to heave to his knees but failed. Mort reached for the handcuffs he kept inside his vest pocket as the other two fought to stay in control. Jess was wild in his efforts, and, Slim thought, unbelievably strong with a will to be free bred into his bones. The rancher tightened his hold on the flailing man's wrists and felt guilty, like the man tasked with shoveling dirt over a coffin.

Releasing a string of curse words between raw gasps, Jess fought Slim's grip and the cold steel closing around his wrists with every bit of strength he had. The efforts were useless. His hands were now tightly secured behind his back. He struggled against the cuffs, only tightening them with his attempts. Irrationally, he jerked at the bands until finally, overcome with a feeling of helplessness and dread, the fight ebbed from him, and he stilled, surrendered.

All four men dripped sweat, a reward for their efforts. Though relieved that Jess had settled, Slim and Mort looked at each other with pained expressions, panting for breath.

"Alright, let's get him up and outta here," Mort spoke through quick breaths.

Cherry stepped back but said, "Hey, Sheriff, you might oughta check his left boot, there. He's always carried him a boot knife."

"Come on, Jess," Slim's voice was edged with compassion and concern as he helped Mort haul his partner to his feet.

Jess stood but didn't speak. Still breathing hard, his eyes were on the floor. The dark mop of his messy hair further hid his eyes. He didn't even raise his head as Tris tried to speak to him. Her words didn't register as his two friends led him out the front door toward the jail.

Once inside the cell, a defeated Jess dropped to the cot. His back was arched, muscles bent like a yew bow as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands buried in sweat-dampened hair. Since leaving the saloon, he had yet to respond to anything Mort or Slim said.

Slim's heart ached for Jess as he helped deposit him inside Mort's cell. Once the unwanted job was done, he leaned against the outside of the bars. Mort stood beside him, arms folded across his starred chest.

"Talk to me, Pard."

There was no response from the statue figure he addressed. Unbidden anger directed toward his friend rose inside the blond man. "What in blue blazes were you thinking?" The anger he felt fringed his voice. "I know you aren't stupid. But dang it, Jess, why'd you have to haul off and do a stupid thing like this? Like you're wanting to shoot yourself in the foot?" Suddenly struck with a sense of deja vu, he continued his tirade, "I'm sick and tired of looking at you behind bars. Normal people can stay out of jail. What'd Tillman do to you to make it worth you attacking him?" There was still no response from inside the cell. The silence was stony.

Slim smacked a bar with the palm of his hand before turning away to pace around the room. He needed some time to let his anger overpower the empathy he felt toward his troubled friend.

It was Mort's turn to try and break through to the man inside his cell. He understood the way that Slim was feeling. How could the man so stupidly put his freedom at risk for nothing more than an alcohol-fueled bar fight? Setting his emotions and concern aside, he addressed his prisoner. "Jess, I don't know what you were thinking back there. I don't need to tell you that you've jeopardized your freedom. I can only hope that there was a good enough reason for you to have fought that man to make the consequences worth it. Son, you better start talking."

Jess remained silent but straightened. Arms wrapped around the leanness of his stomach, he leaned back against the stone wall; head tilted back. The moonlight streaming through the window cast a line of light over his cheekbone and down his throat. The rest of his face stayed buried in shadow. He rolled his head to briefly look at Mort before turning away. The sheriff saw despair and sorrow in the young man's momentary gaze.

A quick rap at the door interrupted the tumultuous thoughts of the three.

Cherry poked his head inside the office door. "Howdy, Sheriff. Howdy, Slim. Didn't know if I should walk in without knocking first. Kindly don't like the idea of my head gettin' blowed off."

"Yeah, come on in, Cherry. I didn't have a chance back there to thank you for the help corralling this yahoo." Mort jerked his thumb in the direction of the cell. His heart was hurting for the young man, but the sadness didn't stop him from feeling anger toward him also. "It felt like the three of us were wrestling a grizzly. Did you see what happened, Cherry? I mean, the altercation with Tillman? I can't get a word outta Harper...like he's taken a vow of silence."

Backed by the dim light of kerosene lamps, the handsome cowboy looked nervous as he stood. He held a well-worn hat in his hands, slowly turning it through his fingers. He shifted from foot to foot and glanced at his friend inside the cell, who had not even acknowledged his presence. Jess still stared out of the small barred window like he was studying the craters on the moon.

"Shoot, Sheriff. This place makes me skittish as a week-old colt. My...uh...visits to the inside of a sheriff's office ain't ever exactly been voluntary in the past, if ya know what I mean." He looked at Mort with a fish-eating grin before ducking his head.

What is it with these Texans and their gunfighting, jail hopping ways? Lord help the sheriffs in that great state, Mort thought, a small smile playing at his lips. Another Texas boy to tug at your heartstrings. Dang, if I'm not getting soft in my old age. He spoke sternly and fixed the man with an eye. "Cherry, are you gonna tell us what happened or not?

Cherry cleared his throat. "Yeah, sure. Lemme just start by saying that I seen the whole thing happen. See, me and Jess was playing poker. That was my fault. He told me a month ago he stayed away from the game now, on account of it always landing him in trouble in the past. Should'a left him alone about it. I'm blamin' myself. That part weren't his fault."

"Cherry," Mort interrupted, his voice stern once again. "You can tone down the Texas charm a notch. I've already seen it all from that hothead in my cell. Now, unless you held a gun to his head, you know as well as I do that Harper is the only one to blame for choosing to join in on a poker game, despite his better judgment."

Cherry's head ducked once more. "Yessir. Sorry 'bout that."

Slim swore a red hue climbed the throat, and reached the cheeks of the lanky cowboy at the Sheriff's tough words. Maybe that blush is why his name is Cherry? Mort was never one to cut slack or mince words. There was still no change in Jess's distant expression.

"As I was sayin', me and Jess joined in with a poker game, his choice, a'course. Sorry, buddy." Again, with that self-deprecating grin, as Cherry said the last part and glanced toward the cell. "Anyways, I didn't last too long playin' on account of Jess cleaning my pockets. He may be quick as a snake in a boot, but a fast gun ain't his only talent. You gents ever played poker with that card shark? He'll win the clothes off your back and leave ya settin' there naked."

Slim suppressed a smirk. The cowboy was as likable as Jess. Dang Texas gunslingers.

Trouble.

One look at the sheriff's unamused face, and Cherry hastened his story. "I moved back a ways from the table where Jess was still playin', but I could hear everything bein' said. Al was getting real drunk on account'a the whiskey shots he kept downing. He ain't just a ugly lookin' brute. There's a temper inside his carcass to match his face. He started spouting off to Harper, calling him a convict and accusin' him a cheatin' at cards. Jess tried to pull outta the game real peaceful-like. Cool as a cucumber and polite as all get out. Now, it's clear you Laramie folk have made good head toward domesticatin' him cause the Jess Harper I used to know would'a knocked Al's head clear off his neck, then kept the man's teeth for souvenirs for the stuff he was sayin'. I was standing there real edgy, worryin' on account'a his parole and about Jess getting caught up in a fractious situation. Al was gettin' real nasty. I heard him sayin' how he was gonna do a whole list'a terrible things to Tris upstairs of the saloon tonight. He didn't spare no detail tellin' Jess how he planned to hurt her bad. I'll tell ya, Sheriff, ain't no kinda man being talked to about his, or any woman in that way wouldnt'a reacted the same or worse than Jess did. Heck. I wish I'd moved sooner cause I was headin' for the man's throat. Reckon you know Jess moves like a cougar, though, and had the man down before I could so much as blink twice."

Cherry paused for a moment and ran fingers through wavy brown hair before shoving his hat on his head. That hat looked like it took a lot of punishment. "Sheriff, I came over here to say that even though I know I gotta vested interest in defending Jess, on account'a him bein' my friend, there ain't nobody worth a grain'a salt who'd think he should go back to prison for poundin' Al Tillman's face in for the things he was saying. I just wish I could've beat Jess to it and saved him from bein' locked up."

Mort kept his gaze locked on the charming cowboy throughout his story. The scenario of what happened in the saloon played out just about exactly how Mort imagined. He knew that Jess would have to have been seriously provoked to get into that fight. Maybe there was hope for his young friend, after all.

"Alright. Cherry, once again, I want to thank you for all of your help tonight. You keep sticking around, and with that level head of yours, I'll start deputizing you from time to time like I do Slim here. In the morning, I'll track Tillman down and, if he can still speak after tonight's pounding, find out if he wants to press charges against Harper. I'll track down the others sitting at the poker table, too, and get their side of what happened."

Mort turned to face the cell. "Jess, when you get through sulking, and you're ready to talk, you just let me know. Maybe this whole situation won't play out as badly as we first thought."

"Sure thing, Sheriff," Jess finally spoke, but there was no glint of hope in his voice as he continued his stare into the night sky.

Chapter 5

Mort was up early the next morning and offered his only slightly less despondent prisoner a cup of coffee and breakfast. Jess took the cup but refused the food.

"Can't force it down your throat, son," Mort responded to the refusal and followed it with, "Slim said he'll be back in late morning sometime to check on your wellbeing and see how the little predicament you've got yourself in has progressed. I'll track down Tillman about those charges and interview the other witnesses. Jess, if we're lucky, this won't go too far."

He had yet to drink from the cup Mort had passed him. He stared into the black liquid for a moment before placing a hand on one of the bars. He had hardly spoken since being locked inside. His emotions had been extreme, going from hot murderous anger, to fear and panic, and finally to despair. Now, he felt a glimmer of hope that he could clear this mess without being sent back to prison, but he was still deathly afraid and knew that hope was dangerous for him to feel. He was definitely not out of the woods yet.

"Mort," he said as the man drew away and headed toward the door. Mort turned to meet earnest blue eyes. "Sheriff," he repeated. "I'm real sorry. For everything. I acted like a fool last night. I ain't sorry about beating Tillman. The man had it coming as Cherry said. But about panickin' and trying to run when you tried to stop me. I got no excuse for that. I landed a fist on Slim and Cherry, but they still wanna help me. Makes a man feel kinda small inside, knowing he's beholden to his friends like that. I'm obliged to you and them. Man to man, Mort, I'm truly sorry."

He had looked directly at the sheriff as he spoke, but once again seemed to find the contents of his cup of great interest.

"Apology accepted, Harper. But don't ever confuse my friendship with my keeping of the law. The law always comes first. You sit tight." With that, he stepped into the sunlight and closed the door behind him, leaving his contrite prisoner alone with his worried thoughts.

Mort's first order of business was to track down Tillman. It did not take him long to find the man who had spent the night in the hotel. He roused the drunk after banging loudly on the door to his room. When the door finally opened, after repeated curses from the man inside, Mort had to take a step back, he was so overpowered by the whiskey and sweat stench emanating from the body that greeted him. It was truly a wonder the man had been able to get out of bed. His eyes were nearly swollen shut, and he had to breathe with his mouth open, his lower lip hanging down like a blacksmith's apron. His nose was obviously broken. The sorry excuse for a human needs a doctor, Mort thought.

"Whaddya want, Sheriff? I ain't done nothin'. It was all that chicken-livered Harper that done it. My face feels like it's been stampeded on." The dull-witted man's speech was still slurred from the night of heavy drinking and his swollen lips.

Mort glanced inside the room and realized that the slurred speech and stench were not just remnants of the night before. Next to an ornately designed but nonetheless ugly green lamp, a half-empty whiskey bottle was on the nightstand.

"Mr. Tillman, there were plenty of witnesses last night to fill me in on what happened. I'm here to find out whether you plan to press charges against Harper for his attack last night."

Mort's face expressed no emotion, but his insides were in turmoil as he silently prayed for Harper's sake, that the monster in front of him would just let the situation lay. To his surprise, Tillman responded with, "I ain't pressin' no charges. But you tell that Texas trash that he's got it comin' from me if I see him again."

He's got nothing beneath his hat but hair, Mort thought. Ranging from surprise to amazement at Tillman's response and stupidity, Mort said, "Are you threatening him? Do I need to take you into custody as well? I heard you were making some nasty threats last night, too. Seems to me you've brought this whole thing down on yourself."

"Aw, Sheriff. I didn't mean nothing. Don't seem right that I can't say I'm gonna defend myself. That Harper is crazy enough to eat the devil with horns on. He'd a stomped my head off last night, for sure, if'n ya hadn't stopped him. You keep that crazy gunhawk away from me, Sheriff. He's a criminal, and I'm sceered he'll shoot me or sumthin'."

Mort could hardly stand the whine in the beaten man's voice. He had all he needed and all he could take from him.

"Tillman, you stay out of trouble. I don't want you going anywhere near Tris in the saloon. I hear that it was her you were threatening last night, and I have witnesses. If I find you've gone near her, I'll have you locked up so fast your head will spin. Oh, and get yourself a bath, and maybe a doctor. You smell like a cow carcass."

It was nearing lunch when Mort finally wrapped up the stories from the poker players at the table. Harper had definitely started and finished the provoked attack. However, all witnesses heartily agreed that if Jess hadn't done the pounding, they would have. Al Tillman had it coming. He had put in an order for his prisoner's lunch from the diner and stepped on the porch of his office, just as Slim stepped out of the door.

"Hey, Mort, you're just the man I was looking for. I just talked with Jess. What kind of headway did you make this morning?" He ran a worried hand up and down his pant leg as he asked the question.

The rancher looked as though he had not slept all night. "Slim, you look like you could use some coffee. Let's head back to the diner and talk over a cup."

Inside the diner, the air smelled of hot grease and bacon. Slim let out a massive sigh of relief as Mort told him everything he had found out. "So, what's the plan for Jess? I mean, I know you still have the right to send him back to prison, right? But you and I both know he doesn't deserve that."

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." The waitress brought them steaming cups of coffee before taking their orders. "Slim, there's no way in God's creation that I'm sending that boy back to hell on earth over this, not without Tillman pressing charges."

Slim exhaled. His relief was once more evident.

"But, I figure that I can't let him go scot-free, either. There will be too much talk about favorin' him if I do that. I was thinking of keeping him locked up here for a week just so I can nail down some kind of punishment. That will put you in a bind at the ranch. I know you've come to rely on him."

Slim was surprised the sheriff was asking his opinion over this. He knew the man didn't have to but appreciated the confidence and concern. "Heck, Mort. To tell you the truth, I think Jess will agree that a week's stay in your jail is a Sunday cakewalk. I'll make do without him for a week. You are a good man, Mort. You care about folks and do your best to make the right decisions by them."

They brought lunch and a fresh cup of black brew back to the office. Jess spun around as soon as they walked through the door. He moved to the cell door and grasped the bars, the tight grip on them disguised his shaking hands. "You got news for me, Sheriff?" His deep voice cracked embarrassingly. He ducked his head, jaw pulsing, breathless as he waited to hear his fate.

"Brought you some lunch, son."

His head whipped up, eyes narrowed beneath furrowed brows. "I ain't gonna eat nothin 'til ya tell me what I've got comin', Mort," he growled out, giving the bars a fruitless shake.

Ah. There's the stubborn, cain-raising gunfighter he tries so hard to keep tacked down, Slim thought.

"Easy, boy. Mostly, I have good news. Bad news is that you'll be keeping me company for a while." Mort paused.

Slim glanced at the sheriff, wondering if the lawman wasn't enjoying keeping his friend in suspense. Jess looked about as steady as a cannon with a lit fuse while he waited for Mort to finish.

"Jess, you'll get to finish out your parole on the free side of steel bars. You're not going back to prison."

Jess sank like he had been punched in the stomach. Then, arms folded across his chest, he straightened his posture and leaned his forehead on a bar. His eyes stayed closed for a minute as he breathed deeply before glancing up through thick eyelashes. "I'll take that lunch now," he said, as his mouth turned up with a smile. "I'm hungry enough to eat a coyote tail first."

Chapter 6

Slim's proclamation had been right; a week in Mort's jail was a Sunday cakewalk, at least compared to what the alternative might have been. After confirming that Tillman would stay clear of Tris, Jess was nearly worry-free. It did not escape him that once again, Mort was to thank that he would not be a guest of the state for the foreseeable future. Neither did it escape him that he was an exceedingly lucky man to have violated his parole, without having to pay a heavy consequence for it. With that gratefulness in mind, he was a model prisoner.

...For the most part.

His long days were broken up and made all the more bearable by lunch brought to him by Tris. Doggone, if that girl ain't threatin' my bachelor ways, he thought, as she brought him a meal on the second day of his stay.

Mort usually left the office to give them some privacy, but always with the same kind of warning. "Tris, you can stay for thirty minutes. No more than thirty. And Jess, no touching through the bars. There will be no hanky panky happening in my jail."

The directive elicited an embarrassed groan from Jess, who valiantly tried to control a dramatic eye-roll.

"Jess." The spoken name implied a stern warning.

"Sure thing, grandpa."

Mort's eyes narrowed.

"What I mean is, yes sir, Sheriff."

"Behave." The word was punctuated with a pointed finger as Mort left the room, grumbling something about wiping the smile off the cheeky whippersnapper's face.

As soon as the office door closed behind the sheriff, his eyes lit on Tris. The cocky smile brought on from his jab at Mort still held. "Díos, Miss Alcott, you can't come walkin' in here lookin' as purty as you do without offerin' me just one little kiss. Real quick, huh? How'bout it?"

The girl was smitten with Jess. From the top of his filthy hat to the bottom of his worn-out boots, she cherished every swaggering inch of him. Never had she met a more handsome or sweeter man. She loved his big, rough hands and ran her lips along his fingers, tender against the roughness.

Their kiss through the bars was anything but quick.

She drove him wild when she wore her curly brown hair down, and the blue dress she had on, though plain, fit her in all the right ways, snug as a new boot. He drank her in. It was going to be a long rest of the week.

She pulled back from the kiss, teasing him. "Now, Jess. You heard what Mort said." She mimicked the sheriff's finger point, jabbing a coiffed nail into his chest. "Behave." She scrunched her face to look grumpy.

Dadgum bars in the way. "Yes, ma'am. Wouldn't dream of misbehavin'.

Her cool fingers sizzled against his skin as they migrated their way across his chest. His hands cupped the delicate angle of her jaw as his lips traversed hers.

He moaned against her lips.

"Jess Harper. Don't you growl at me." She feigned a schoolmarm's sternness and pinched a tender place at the words.

"Ow," he groaned, and said, "No ma'am. No growlin'," his voice all husky. She was gentle and ferocious in one pretty package, and he loved that about her.

She finally pulled away from the kiss at the sound of Mort's boots stomping loudly on the boardwalk. That had been about the fastest half an hour of his life. He righted himself in two shakes of a stick. The sudden panic at the threat of getting caught cooled him down some, but not enough. "Aw...Tris, ya can't leave me here with nobody to see but Mort. It's a mean kinda torture to leave a man waitin' to see ya for a whole day."

She was busy righting herself, too. It was apparent that Mort was making an exceptional amount of noise and dragging his feet to let them know he was coming in.

"Oh, my, you poor soul." She tsked at him, tossing her bouncy curls as she expressed her sympathy, however insincere it was. "You'll be okay, baby. This way, you will have something to really look forward to every day."

He didn't have time for a response to the devil woman as Mort banged around with the door, making as much noise as possible. Once inside, the sheriff averted his eyes until it was awkward not to acknowledge the couple.

"Miss Alcott." He nodded his head toward her in greeting.

Looking perfectly composed and proper, she said, "Hello, Mort. I was just about to leave. Jess behaved himself quite well." She had the audacity to angle her face and wink at her beautiful, disheveled man before turning a dazzling smile at the sheriff as she made her wiggle-hipped way to the door. "You two have a lovely rest of the day," she said, cheerful as a bluejay as if she hadn't just left her lover in dire straits and locked away.

Jess, on the other hand, was a mess, with his hair tousled, and his breathing the smallest bit irregular. However, it was clear to Mort that he was trying his level best to appear innocent and unperturbed.

"Mort, ya gotta try some'a that steak and boiled potatas Tris brought from the café today. Best meal I ever had." Wide-eyed like a puppy, he had just gotten the words out before he winced as Mort's eyes landed on the obviously uneaten meal inside the cell. Jess looked like he had just poked a porcupine with a stick as Mort pinned him with a glare. Anxious to break the threatening stare, he turned, walked the few steps to the back wall, and did about a foot high hop to grab hold of the bars of the tiny window up high. He hoisted himself up to look out. The fresh air smacked him in the face and laughed at him. He caught just a glimpse of Tris as she rounded a corner. Her blue gingham skirt fluttered in the breeze like it was waving goodbye to him before she disappeared, out of sight.

Mort let out a sigh and rubbed a hand across his face, whispering under his breath something about the Lord helping him. He would say lots of little things like that between his teeth over the course of the week. Setting about his tasks, he tried not to be distracted by Jess, who, on the short leash of an 8'x8' space, bounced around like a flea with no dog to land on.

The daily lunch, with its checkered napkin draped over it, sat untouched for the next five days until the half-hour (or more, if Mort was feeling especially generous with the allotment of time for 'hanky panky') of visiting time came to its sad end.

And, so, the week passed, altogether not too unpleasantly for Jess Harper.

Slim arrived early on Sunday morning, trailing Traveler behind him. He had definitely missed having his friend and ranch hand around and was anxious to get him back home as soon as possible. He found Jess prowling around the cell, looking ready to climb walls. He was met with an excited grin and a "Boy, am I ever glad to see you. Hey, Pard! You brought my hat! Did ya bring Trav? Mort, unlock this thing, will ya," shaking the bars as though experience had never taught him the pointlessness of that action. The cell door was barely open as he squeezed out, tripping over himself in his hurry.

"He's all yours, Slim." Mort couldn't decide who was more thrilled about Harper's exodus from his jail. The man had more energy than a row of youngsters released from their pew after a Sunday morning meeting. The sheriff had been sassed six ways to Sunday all week long, and he swore the man made him dizzy with his constant movement. The finish was practically worn off the cell's floor. What ever happened to the whupped Jess Harper who could barely make eye contact with him? And mercy, if the rascal ever again begged him for even one more cup of coffee...He had lost track of the times that he had sounded off, "This is a jail, not a hotel, Harper!" As soon as the office door shut behind the rambunctious cowboy and Sherman, Mort sank to his chair, relishing the quiet. Uncharacteristically, he tossed his long legs on top of the desk and tilted his head back, determined to take a well-earned nap before church. He was worn out, and strange enough, he was also lonely.

Waiting until they were out of the town limits, the two men took off, tearing a new rut in the road with the speed of their racing horses all the way home. Jess pulled the clean, open air into his lungs and let it spread through his body. With a friend as solid as Slim by his side, and the power of the horse beneath him, he felt there might be nothing better. Traveler's hooves chewed the ground as they raced, and Jess felt only happiness.

All of his pent up energy was put to good use for the rest of the week. Or rather, Slim put it to good use working on the ranch. He groused good-naturedly about all of the extra chores he'd had to do while Jess took his week-long "vacation." The man needed no prodding, though, bound and determined as he was to make up for the involuntary absence, working from sunup to sundown. Slim had purchased a new string of green broke horses earlier in the week, and Jess had his work cut out, readying them for harness when he wasn't catching up on his other chores.

With Slim's blessing, Jess had taken Monday afternoon off to take Andy fishing. The two came back that evening after the sun had paled, bare-chested and soaking wet, skin as wrinkled as longjohns shoved into the back of a drawer. Neither had a single fish on their stringers. Skipping rocks across its surface and then swimming in the cool water of the lake had seemed a more refreshing pastime than fishing after the "man to man" talk the two had. Jess felt like he needed to make some apologies to the boy, whom he knew idolized him. Before tossing the kid into the lake water, he had asked forgiveness for his weeklong absence. He told him that there was no excuse for the behavior that had landed him in a cell once again. He earnestly begged the boy to want to be like Slim, straight and unbending like iron, not to want to be an irresponsible yahoo like he was.

"You, Slim, and Daisy are what they call 'folks of high moral fiber;' the kinda people willin' to sacrifice, givin' no mind in return."

The two sat at the edge of the lake as he spoke, bare feet playing in the sand and shale. Andy made a collection of smooth pebbles as he listened to his hero's soapbox speech.

"You gotta know how fortunate you are to have the two of them, Andy. While the three of you have each other, there can't be nothing wrong with livin'. Ever. Don't never forget how lucky you are to have 'em. But I figure, though, the luck runs both ways. Reckon they couldn't do without you neither." He ruffled the boy's hair before saying, "Race ya to the water!"

And so, the daily activities at the Sherman Ranch settled back down, quickly regaining their accustomed rhythms.

After their usual Thursday afternoon supply-run into Laramie that week, Jess was starving by the time they made it halfway back to the ranch. He swore he started smelling Daisy's cooking a mile out, hastening the team pulling the buggy as his grumbling stomach played against the creak of the wagon and the caws of crows overhead.

"You had lunch with Tris, Jess. Where'd all that food go? Left hollow leg, or the right one?" The growling stomach was loud enough for Slim to hear.

In a moment of boastfulness, Jess grinned wryly and then winked at his friend. "Well, the two of us can't never seem to get much eatin' done together. When I'm with her, in the moment, I ain't exactly thinkin' about food." He flushed and studied the bouncing rear ends of the horses ahead as if the jiggling flesh was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. "We didn't actually make it to the cafe to eat. So." A pause to clear his throat. "Now, my stomach thinks my throat's been cut." He uttered the last bit a little awkwardly as if the words could blanket and dissolve his earlier confession. He made the mistake of looking over at Slim.

Not one to miss a moment where mercy should definitely not be granted, Slim's sky blue eyes, cast over with implied innocence, surveyed his friend. He blinked a few times, somehow blending sarcasm with false empathy in his expression, and said, "Saddest thing I ever heard."

Slim tried hard to suppress a laugh but couldn't control an amused smirk as Jess yanked his hat down, level with his eyebrows, at least, and turned his attention back to the swaying rumps of the horses. While in town, he had seen the lovebirds dart up the saloon's back stairs together as he left the general store. As he considered the two, who were definitely not going to the café to eat lunch, in his thoughts, he had mimicked Jess's words as they arrived in town, "Hey Slim. Figure you can handle the supplies on your own today? I gotta date at the café to eat lunch with Tris."

Eat lunch with Tris at the café. My skinny backside.

Jess rushed through unloading the buckboard. The tantalizing smell of a freshly baked pie wafted out of the open kitchen window. Fried chicken, too. Yep! It was definitely fried chicken he smelled. "All finished up here, Pard. Let's eat!"

"Oh, no, ya don't. I'm eating. You're putting up the horses and tending to the outside chores. I figure it's a fair trade, what with me having to purchase and load all the supplies in town by myself while you ran off and had your fun. Besides, you had that big lunch with Tris while I slaved and went hungry." The tall man crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look stern, but he never could help the jaunty grin on his face that seemed to have a mind of its own every time he prodded Jess.

"Dang it, Slim, that ain't fair." He rubbed his belly and followed his weak protest with a downcast, "Sure, boss. Whatever you say."

Poor fella looks dejected, Slim thought with an extraordinarily high level of mirth. "If you hurry, you might get some of that fried chicken before I eat it all, loverboy." With that, he spun on his heels and headed into the house with a loud, "Ms. Daisy, it seems you've outdone yourself tonight. That chicken smells like the heavenly angels above prepared it."

Jess grumbled as he went about the chores. He hurried through unhitching the team, all the while complaining about Slim and childishly mimicking him out loud with his face scrunched up, lips all twisted. "Oh, Daisy! smells like the angels cooked your chickens." He shut up after he spotted a very pregnant Buttons staring at him curiously, with her head cocked to the side, left ear perched up high.

After an explanation to the dog about his own intact sanity and the selfish nature of his boss, he looked toward the house and spotted a gift that surely had been prepared and provided to him from the heavenly angels above that Slim mentioned. No doubt inspired by some holy entity, Daisy had placed an apple pie on the windowsill to cool.

Harper, you sly devil. Don't do it.

Jess cast a furtive glance around just to be sure no one was watching. He placed a finger on his lips and said, "sshh" to the expectant pooch as he darted to the house, flattening himself against the wall in much the same way that he had over a year ago while escaping during Percy Blake's raid. He stealthily scooted his body to where it was flush with the window. Smooth and slick like a Shoshoni brave, he proudly thought about himself. Reaching down to his boot, he pulled out his knife and sank the blade into the baked gift that had been so mercifully provided to him. Steam released a delightful smell as the pie was punctured. He cut a generous slice and lifted the offering to his lips.

"Jess Harper. Gunfighter, saloon brawler, and pie thief."

The aforementioned thief released a sound similar to that of a Shoshoni war cry cut short with an arrow to the throat as he jumped out of his skin. He dropped the piece of pie so that it landed with a plop, splattering on the toe of his boot.

"Dadgum it, Slim! You scared the pants off me! What the heck are you doin?! Thought you was supposed to be eating Daisy's angel chicken."

If a more pompous and amused expression had ever been achieved by anyone whose visage Jess Harper had at any time beheld, he had wiped the unpleasant memory from his mind. Slim stood beside the kitchen door in his signature, what Jess had come to think of as the "holy-roller stance." His arms were crossed, back straight, smug smile. Righteousness glowed on his face, not unlike Moses bearing The Commandments and staring down at the children of Israel with their sacrilegious golden calf. To top it all off, he swore that Slim's blond hair looked like an ill-befitting halo from the sunlight hitting it just so.

"Oh, Daisy!" Slim called loudly, through lips that almost wouldn't cooperate through their unconstrained grin.

"Dadgum it, Slim," Jess repeated, stomping the damning evidence off the toe of his boots.

Daisy appeared from the back door of the kitchen, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. "Yes? Slim, dear. You called?"

Slim uncrossed an arm, and in a grand and dramatic gesture, swept it toward Jess. The outstretched hand may as well have been a silver platter on which he offered his Pard's severed head.

Slim, you backstabbing son of a gun. Just you wait and see what kinda payback you got comin'.

Daisy turned to look, taking in a very guilty expression, and the dog licking incriminating evidence off the boots of her beloved Jess. She turned to look toward the assaulted pie on the windowsill. "Oh my," she sighed before glancing up at Slim. When she looked back around at the red-handed Jess, her smile mirrored the delight of the tall man beside her.

Armed with a practiced woebegone expression that would melt the stoniest of female hearts, Jess began his plea. "Aw...Daisy. Sorry 'bout your pie. I ain't got an excuse for sneakin' a piece, 'cept I'm still half-starved on account of not gettin' enough grub last week. Mort, ya know. He keeps his prisoners on a real strict diet of bread and water."

A loud snort escaped Slim's mouth, and his eyes rolled so hard they had a difficult time recentering. Shameless little boot-licker.

Jess thought Slim's snort sounded like a horse letting loose out of its backside but didn't voice his thought in front of Daisy. Instead, he played out a quick but violent scenario involving his fist shoved down his high and mighty boss's throat. Both thoughts amused him greatly.

"The pie itself is not a concern, Jess, dear. However, if you are willing to resort to pie thievery, then I am no less willing to resort to blackmail, of a sort. A tit for tat resolution, if you please, or consequence if you'd rather."

Jess cocked an uneasy eyebrow at Daisy while he shewed Buttons away from his boots. A consequence was something he could work with. He knew all about those. Blackmail, on the other hand, was an entirely different beast with too many variables. He wasn't sure if he'd like a tit for tat either, whatever it was. "Whatcha got in mind, ma'am?"

"On Sunday, you will attend the church service with us. And…" she paused for dramatic effect, "you will bring that lovely young lady that I keep hearing so much about, with you. And for every Sunday that you attend church with us, I will bake you your own personal apple pie. A pie…" she turned to pin the tall man down with a glare and to point a finger directly at his heart "that Slim is forbidden to touch."

A wide grin lit up his handsome face, and his lake-blue eyes danced. "You got yourself a deal, Ms. Daisy." Lifting his hat, Jess dramatically wiped a shirtsleeve across his brow and said, "For a minute there, I thought I was in real trouble."

With that, the two of them embraced, with an added peck to the cheek, before they headed into the kitchen arm in arm, leaving a bemused Slim behind.

"I don't get a pie? He steals a pie, and you reward hi…." Slim's complaint was cut short by the kitchen door slamming shut an inch from his nose. He stared hard at the chips in the door's paint, mere centimeters from his glare. "I'll be da…" He was once again interrupted, but this time by an "ahem" coming from the kitchen window. He turned to face the irritating and self-satisfied countenance of his friend.

"Oh, Slim. I didn't finish unhitching the team, but Ms. Daisy here says I'm to sit down for supper pronto, on account'a me needin' the caloric intake so bad. She says the angel chicken is gettin' cold, so she wants you to hurry and finish with the chores. And you know how she don't take no for an answer when she gets her mind set." Jess spoke as he leaned his elbows on the windowsill above the pie. He looked not entirely unlike a cherub in a fancy painting as he cradled his triumphant face in his hands. He was all gap-toothed grin and satisfaction as he beheld and gazed upon the scowl on his Pard's face.

"For gosh sakes, Hardrock. You look forlorn as a kicked puppy."

Chapter 7

When Sunday did roll around, there was more excitement in the air at the Sherman Ranch than usual for a Sabbath morning. Daisy and Andy were very much looking forward to finally meeting Tris, and each inhabitant was more excited than they cared to admit about the prospect of Jess attending service.

Andy and Jess had a secret side bet regarding whether or not the older of the two would at some point during the day be struck down by holy lightning, because, according to Jess, 'that's what happens to sinners who ain't repented step inside a church building." He was betting against himself dodging a strike that would blow his eyeballs clean from their sockets, burnt brain smoke trailing out of the holes. He would owe Andy a bag of licorice if he survived the day. In return, Andy promised a daily bouquet of flowers to be lovingly placed on the dirt covering the gunfighter's charred carcass. It wasn't exactly a win-win kind of bet for Jess, but it pleased him to impress the boy with a visual of his eyeless corpse.

The church, situated on Laramie's outskirts, was close enough for Tris Alcott to walk to. As the Sherman buggy pulled up to the churchyard, the passengers were all thrilled to see her as she stood, awaiting their arrival in the warm sunlight of the late morning.

"Miss Alcott, you look pretty as a picture," Jess said as he jumped lithely from the buckboard and then greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

The man cut a handsome figure in his black frock coat. His shirt was white and crisp. A string necktie spruced up his neck. The abiding dust on the Stetson was wiped clean, and his boots were polished to a gleam. Jess looked proud as a peacock as the beautiful woman draped her arm in his. "This here is Ms. Daisy."

Slim had just helped Daisy off the buggy, and she wasted no time moving toward Tris before gathering the young woman in her arms with that warmth and unconditional acceptance that made Daisy one in a million. "Oh, you are just as lovely and sweet as Jess promised."

"I am so pleased to finally meet you, . I feel as though I'm being introduced to royalty. Jess holds you in such high regard and has told me so much about you." Tris was gracious and genuine in her mannerisms. Without a body being told, it would be impossible to know that this genteel and beautiful woman was a saloon girl, not a member of high society.

She was just as enthusiastic in her introduction to Andy, who earned a gentle nudge to the back from his older brother as he momentarily stood slack-jawed, awed by how pretty Tris was. No wonder Jess was mooning all over the place! At least, according to Slim, the boy thought as the happy group made their way into the building.

The morning ended beautifully. There had been no incidents involving tar or even feathers. Rather, the fringe-of-society couple were greeted and warmly accepted by the congregation inside the brightly lit church. Neither had there been a single occurrence of judgemental lightning out of the cloudless blue sky to strike down the black-haired miscreant in recovery. Instead, his softening heart had buzzed and been refreshed at the promises spoken to him out of the Good Book, read aloud by the preacher. He had done a powerful amount of listening, and the kind-faced minister with the gentle voice had done a powerful amount of preaching. Smiling to himself as they loaded up after the service, he thought, Daisy won't even have to bribe me with a pie to go back. But there ain't no way in hel...in creation, I'm telling her that.

"A penny for you to tell me about that smile on your handsome face." Tris traced his lips with a fingertip as they said their goodbyes for the day.

Realizing he'd been caught with a play of emotions on his face, he replied, "Just naturally cheerful, I reckon."

"Oh, is that all?" She teased, pouting her lips, knowing she bent him to her will every time she did that.

"Aww, heck, Miss Alcott. Truth is, I ain't never been happier than I am right here, right now." He kissed her then, unashamedly, in full view of the Sunday crowd exiting the church building. Finally looking up from the kiss, three pairs of eyes were watching. Well, almost three pairs of eyes. Andy held an embarrassed hand over his, but one eye peaked through parted fingers. Slim draped his arm over Daisy's shoulders beside him on the seat. The two were smiling gleefully, and each gave a synchronized wink to their lovestruck convert whose errant ways of the past were hogtied, or at least reined in.

The memories created that Sunday morning, in all of its soul mending perfection, would in a short time only add to the anguish of the man who experienced them. The knowledge that he had been so loved, and that he had grasped redemption, only to have those gifts stripped away, would soon become a weapon to aid in the destruction of Jess Harper's heart and spirit.

Chapter 8

The days of those living at the relay station were busy, with the scheduled arrivals of the stage, horses to break, and a cattle ranch to run. Thursday, and its necessary supply run, came quickly. Twice since the week began, there had been a fence intentionally cut, up in the North pasture. Slim and Jess spent the morning gathering the yearlings that had escaped the downed fence. Slim stayed behind to mend it and find any tracks of the person involved in its destruction. So, for the first time since arriving at the ranch, Jess headed into town on his own, without Slim's or Daisy's company. He planned to stop and visit with Mort as his first order of business, wanting to be sure the man knew he was in town, and with his boss's permission. An expectant smile drifted across his face as he imagined pestering the sheriff for a cup of coffee. He had derived immense pleasure from doing that during his week-long stay as the man's guest. Harper! This is a jail, not a hotel! Internally, he mimicked Mort's voice. It took a lot to rile the even-tempered man, but Jess prided himself on his ability to do just that.

The dusty main street of town was quiet as he rode in with the buggy. He glanced at the saloon—a jolt of anticipation coursed through him as he imagined the quickly approaching rendezvous with his girl. Business, then pleasure, hound dog, he told himself as he rolled to a stop in front of the sheriff's office. The rowels of his spurs played a soft jingle as he crossed the weather-beaten boardwalk. He tried the door but found that it was locked. A posted note said, "Back in one hour." It was written in Mort's hasty scrawl.

If he was quick enough with the necessities, he would have a nice little cushion of spare time to spend with Tris. He rushed through his business at Benson's General Store, enjoying friendly but hurried banter with the bespeckled and bald man who ran the place. He usually had a hard time concentrating when he talked to the store clerk on account of the flaming pink and hairy mole on the tip of his nose that bobbed up and down when he spoke. It reminded Jess of a pretend cherry on an old lady's church bonnet.

Distractin.

"Mr. Benson, add'a quarter-pound'a licorice to that order, will ya? I'll be paying fer that, no need to put it on the Sherman tab. Oh, and some a'them lemon drops, too."

"I'm in the wrong business, Jess. I ought to be a dentist. Between the sweets you and that Sherman youngster eats, my tooth drilling business would be booming."

As if a distant but painful memory involving a tooth drifted through his mind, the candy buyer rubbed his jaw, and scrunched together his dark eyebrows. Maybe I'll give them lemon drops to Tris instead'a eatin' myself. At the thought of the thanks he would soon be on the receiving end of -maybe a kiss for each piece of candy!- his face brightened.

Dadgum, if I ain't a clever son of a gun.

"Aw, now, Mr. Benson, if I had to choose between a handshake with a grizzly or a dentist, I'd shake the clawed paw every time. Sorry to have rushed ya through Slim's order. The man is plumb impatient sometimes. Heck, if I don't make it back to the ranch soon, he'll likely send the dog catcher after me."

The comment drew a laugh from the store owner, who knew from the charming smile of his customer that the rush he was in had nothing at all to do with Slim Sherman.

With the buckboard finally loaded, Jess headed to the saloon. He was earlier than usual. Tris would likely be up in her room, so he steered his course to the back of the building, toward the stairs. For a man who had spent half of his life surviving as the result of a honed sense of awareness, his guard was down. His thoughts were occupied not with surviving but with lemon-sweetened kisses. He was caught completely unaware as he rounded the corner of the gray, clapboard building. A foul-smelling Tillman grabbed hold of his shirt collar and slammed him against the wall. His head jerked on his neck and smacked hard against the building, and for several painful seconds, the nighttime stars came early. Instincts kicking in, he jerked forward to headbutt the man who had a grip on his shirt. Tillman pulled back, narrowly avoiding further injury to his still painful nose. In the same defensive movement, he released his fistful of shirtfront and stepped back. Jess, his head still clearing, had his fists raised, ready to launch at the man but stopped short as Tillman spoke.

"Easy."

Both men diverted their attention for a brief moment at the sound of a door opening. It was Pearl, one of the girls that lived upstairs in the saloon. She stood frozen at the top of the stairs as she spotted the apparent altercation between the two men. Just as quickly as she appeared, she spun around and went back inside.

"I ain't gonna fight ya here, boy. Not in broad daylight. Wouldn't want ya to get caught throwin' fists. Wouldn't want the sheriff's pet convict to hav'ta spend another week bedded down real comfy-like in the jail, now would we?"

Jess fought a mighty battle within himself. Knowing how to back down from a fight was a skill he had never acquired. Forcing himself not to attack, he held a defensive stance, glancing toward the gun the man had holstered at his side. "If ya ain't fightin' me now, what is it ya want?" He spat out.

"I gotta proposition for ya, Harper. The way I see it, ya didn't give me no chance to defend myself back in the saloon. Shamin' me in front'a all my friends like that. You sucker-punched me, and ruin't my nose. I'd like a chance to do tha same to you, but I aim to give ya a chance at fair play. That purty Tris gal won't think you're so ravishin' after I pound yer face in." The bruises on Tillman's face were nearly gone; only a yellow tint, matching the shade of his teeth, remained of them.

The mention of Tris's name added to the venom in Jess's voice."If you're itching so bad for another pounding, then what are ya waiting for? Sheriff or not, I'm ready to take you any time you come at me. Let's get at it."

"Nah, not so fast, pretty boy. See, I knowed you come visit that pretty saloon gal every Thursday like clockwork."

Jess felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The piece of filth had not only been watching him but much worse, he had been watching Tris.

Egged on by the savage expression on the blue-clad cowboy's face, Tillman continued, "I got friends who keep an eye on all the comin's and goin's in town. Snuck off the brandin' crew today, just so's I could come up here and teach you a lesson. Now, since I don't want this fair fight we're working up to interrupted, I got in mind a spot where the two of us can have at it, where the sheriff can't jump in and save your yella hide from the beatin' you got comin'."

"I'm about sick'a hearing you talk, Tillman. Why don't you just tell me what place you got in mind, and I'll be there."

"You're in an all-fired rush to get your tail-end handed to ya, boy. You know the Widow Harmon's abandoned place? Let's meet there. Nobody around there for at least'a mile; that's where we'll meet."

Keeping a wary eye on Tillman, Jess reached down to pick his hat up off the ground, slapping it against his leg to shake off the dust. "You bringin' that handgun to the fight?" he asked. Tillman's proposition seemed suspicious. It felt like a trap. "You plannin' to gun me down out there? No witnesses?"

"Now, Harper, I dunno what kinda backstabbing scum you take me fer. I'd no sooner gun down an unarmed man than I would sucker-punch him with no warning." A lecherous smile bared his yellow teeth. "You ain't scared now, are ya? Too chicken-livered to face me in a fair fight? Tell ya what, if'n ya don't agree to meet me, I'll just keep on observin' that pretty gal friend'a yours. I might catch her one day when there's nobody watchin'...maybe steal me a kiss or sumthin, take her out to the Widow's place for some fun."

Without thought, Jess reacted. He leapt toward the man who had just threatened his Tris. Tillman was surprisingly fast, stopping the attacker dead in his tracks. He had drawn his pistol, and Jess froze mid-assault, staring down the barrel pointed at him.

"Ya got one hour, Harper. I'll leave this here pistol in my saddlebag. No weapons. Ya got my word on that." His words were punctuated with a mud-colored stream of spit landing Jess's feet; at that, the slope-shouldered man rounded the corner of the building and disappeared.

Darkness settled over Jess as he climbed onto the buckboard seat. He clucked at the team to make his way out of town. An hour would give him plenty of time to make it to the abandoned homestead where he was to meet Tillman. From behind him, out of the swinging saloon doors, he heard Tris call his name. He never looked back but flicked the reins against the flesh of the horses, bidding them to go faster.

The Widow Harmon's place had been abandoned for years. It stood on useless, rocky ground, and it was home only to the graves of the couple who had homesteaded it. The place was about a quarter of a mile off the road between Laramie and the relay station. Every survival instinct Jess had was dancing a lively two-step. This was a perfect place for an ambush. The dilapidated, hardscrabble house was nestled up against a hillside littered with boulders large enough for men to hide behind. Scraggly pine trees lined the entrance. The hillside and the trees' effect was a horseshoe, with the homestead and the road leading up to it, in the center. He would never even see a rifleman from the trees or the rocks before he was shot if one hid there. The landscape was almost slick with calm. Not even a breeze swept through the hollow. Despite the quiet, his senses were alive with warnings. Rounding the curve in the road, he could see the house and spotted Tillman. It was no surprise that the man beat him there on horseback. What did surprise him as he pulled in was seeing that he was unarmed, as promised.

Eyes continuing to scan the area for an ambush, he climbed out of the buckboard. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he was anxious to use them to rearrange Tillman's facial features once again. The man started to speak, but Jess covered the distance between them so quickly, he never finished. Jess was on him like a wildcat, barrelling into him with his shoulder down. But the bigger man once again surprised him with his speed, turning to the side, deflecting most of the aim from the shoulder. He grabbed a fistful of dark hair in the same motion as the dodge and yanked the smaller man backward. Jess crashed to his back but quickly kicked out to trip the man coming at him. As Tillman went down, Jess launched himself onto the man's chest, raining down blows on a still tender face. The slamming of his fists abruptly stopped as Jess yelped at the fire that streaked across his left arm above the elbow. Crab crawling backward off of Tillman's chest, he tried to put as much space between himself and the man's knife as he could. Not sparing a glance at the fresh cut to his arm, he scrambled to his feet, pulling out his own knife from inside his boot.

The knife felt good in his hand. Not as right as a gun, but the blade conjured a familiar bloodlust in him. He visualized the devastating six inches of metal shoved deep in Tillman's chest, a crimson blossom spreading outward from the entry site.

The two men stood a body length apart, both armed with knives, their bodies posed to use the weapons against each other.

"Thought ya said no weapons."

Blood streaming from his re-injured nose, Tillman switched the knife to his left hand and took several steps backward. In the few seconds that Jess registered the man's movements, he pulled a pistol from the waistband at the back of his pants.

"Alright, scumsucker, toss that knife to them rocks over yonder."

Reluctant to rid himself of his only defense, Jess stared for a moment at the knife in his hand before tossing it in the direction he was told. You're a dead man, Harper. Despite the seriousness of the thought, he glared at the man, who, for the second time in an hour, held a gun on him, dead to rights. "What now, Tillman. You gonna gun me down?"

"Nope. Told ya, I ain't no back shooter." His face gleaming with sweat, the man swiped a sleeve across his mouth, smearing dark blood from nose to cheek. "Hop back up on that buggy, Harper, and ride outta here. You breathe a word about this to anybody, including Sherman, and I'll take it out on your girl. Comprendé? I don't wantcha forgettin' that I had a draw on you twice today, and I'm lettin' you walk. Don'tcha forget you owe me, boy."

Jess failed to understand the sidewinder's logic. Still, he wasn't going to argue with the cold steel of a gun barrel pointing at his belly. Unwilling to turn his back on the weapon, he stepped backward until he reached the buckboard, then climbed up. Jess steered the team of horses out the way they had just come. Skin crawling, he waited for a bullet in the back. The shot may come from Tillman's .45 or from the rifle the sun glinted off behind a boulder on the hill. The bright snip of gunmetal flashed just long enough to catch his eye.

Heat lightning battled behind a reef of dark clouds as he made his way home. The air was heavy and dense. Once out of gun range, he checked the injury to his arm. It was bleeding plenty, but after rummaging around through the supplies in the buckboard, he found a clean enough rag to tie around it, ebbing the dark flow staining his shirt-sleeve. The old scabs on his knuckles had reopened. His head was spinning as he was entirely puzzled by what had just happened. None of it made any sense. He didn't understand the point that the unpredictable man had tried to make. The man is just plumb loco, and of his mental reservation, he reasoned. And what about that rifle barrel on the hill? A friend of Tillman? A fresh knot grew in his stomach as he wondered how he would keep the injury to his arm disguised from his boss. Even if Tillman hadn't threatened Tris, he would not tell Slim about what happened. For one thing, the man was so duty-bound he would probably drag him back to Mort for getting into another fight. Jess shook his head at that thought. No, Slim is too good a man to turn me in like that. Still, it wasn't even Sherman's fight. No, he would have to lay low for a few days, stay out of sight as much as possible, and let his arm heal a little. He would use that time to discover a way to deal with the unstable Tillman and his repeated threats to Tris.

Chapter 9

Slim's first guess was that Jess had woman trouble; maybe something had happened with Tris that afternoon while he was in town. Whatever happened had turned his friend's mood sour, or contemplative, at best. Two days went by with the same evasive behavior. Coming in after dark to eat a supper kept warm for him on the stove, only to head right back out to the barn "to bed down Traveler," a process that took Jess much longer than usual, past everyone's bedtimes. What really concerned Slim was the waking and riding out before dawn. It had always been a task to wake the man in the mornings. Before the coffee was made, for him to be up and it indicated that all was most certainly not well in the world of Jess Harper. After conferring with Daisy, both decided to allow him space, coming to the same conclusion that something had happened with Tris, maybe a lover's quarrel. So, Slim stayed close to the house and the dependability of the incoming stage, while Jess worked the fence lines and cleared out a creek that had been dammed from a suspiciously cut and fallen tree.

Saturday morning arrived, a day when everyone indulged in an extra hour of sleep before beginning chores. Jess must have missed the directive on that because he was once again missing from his bedsheets as Slim's eyes finally peeled open to face the day. Andy had talked all week about the promise that Jess had made to him about going fishing on Saturday. Slim wondered if the man had forgotten. Well, I'll let him explain himself outta that one. Andy doesn't let up when he's been promised a fishing trip. He shot a look toward the empty bed, usually occupied by his pard. Saturday mornings were definitely not as fun when he couldn't terrorize and wake the grizzly bear that was Jess Harper before his morning coffee.

Slim stumbled into the kitchen, eyes still blurred from sleep. His stomach lured him toward the breakfast that Daisy had going on the stove. "Mornin', Daisy," he rubbed his eyes as he spoke. "Did ya see Jess before he left out?"

Droplets of grease dripped from the spatula in her hand to the pan of frying bacon below as Daisy greeted her "boy" with a peck on the cheek. The man had to bend low for the petite woman to reach him.

"I'm worried about him, Slim. I wish he would talk and let me know what's bothering him so. If he were around for more than a few minutes at a time, I would make him sit and withhold his coffee and pie until he talked to me. I was thinking of heading into town this afternoon to do a little shopping. I don't want to pry about what's going on between them, but maybe Tris will fill me in on what has gotten into Jess."

"That sounds fine, Daisy. Things sure are quiet around here without him raising a ruckus over everything."

"Slim, dear."

"Mmhm?" Slim queried through a bite of scrambled eggs.

She placed an oven-warmed hand over his calloused one, pausing the movement to and from his mouth. "Now, you are just as guilty of that ruckus as he is, and you know it." With a reassuring pat to his hand, she stood and said, "I miss our sweet and mischievous Jess, too, Slim. Maybe this afternoon we can get to the bottom of whatever his trouble is."

Autumn was just around the corner. The fat, soaking droplets of the late summer rains had come and gone, and the grass on the hillsides was beginning to fade from its brilliant green to a more subdued shade. The lavender sagebrush that pockmarked the grasslands was less noticeable now as it blended with the tawny-hued fields. The earth's colors were beginning to merge with the changing season. The absence of rain seemed to take with it the summer heat, and Slim had worked up only a mild sheen of sweat as he labored over horseshoes at the forge in the late afternoon. Andy and Daisy had long since left for town as Slim ceased his pounding to shield his eyes against the bloody red orb of the sun to watch the rider trotting his way down the winding stage road. He recognized Mort by how the man sat his saddle and the star on his chest, which caught the sun with a bright flash. Working out a crick in his back, Slim stepped away from the heat of the forge and stripped off his leather apron just as Mort reined in.

"Well, howdy, Mort! What are you doing out this way? Long ride for a cup of my foul coffee." The words were barely out of his mouth before he noticed the grim expression on the sheriff's face. He had a tight set to his shoulders as he rested his hands on the saddle horn.

"What's the trouble?" Slim asked. His heart clenched with worry about Andy and Daisy, immediately asking if they were okay.

"Sure, Slim. I didn't even know they were in town this afternoon, but the place is buzzing with what's happened. No. I'm afraid I have other news. Have you seen Jess today?"

Another jab of concern worked through him. "I haven't seen him, Mort. He left before I woke up this morning. What's going on? Is he in some kind of trouble?"

Mort's brown eyes were troubled as he replied. "Slim, it's not good. Jess is wanted for the murder of Al Tillman.

Stay tuned for Saints and Sinners Part 3!

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