In The Sheriff's Protection. Lauri Robinson

      Turning so her back was to him, she said, “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

      For some unexplainable reason, he didn’t want to be a lawman, didn’t want to be the one to cause her more pain. More grief. She had plenty. And it wasn’t from her leg. Feigning ignorance, he said, “Ask you what?”

      Her back was still to him, and her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath. “Ask me where—where Billy’s father is?”

      “Billy said he was out buying cattle.”

      “And you believe him?”

      He could point out that he’d seen signs indicating there hadn’t been any cattle on her spread for several years and that the fences would need work before any new ones were brought in, but chose not to. “Don’t see no reason not to. The boy doesn’t seem like one to make up tales.”

      She turned about, and though her eyes never made contact with his, she nodded. “You’re right. He doesn’t. Thank you again, Mr. Baniff. Good night.”

      “Night, ma’am,” he said and headed for the door.

      On his way to the barn, he stopped at the water trough and gave his face a good splashing of water. With droplets still dripping off his chin, he turned about in a full circle, taking in each and every aspect of the property. What was wrong with Hugh Wilson? He had a wife, a son, both of whom would make any man proud. A solid home, a good barn, and a more than fair chunk of land. Most men could only dream of having all this, yet Wilson would rather rob trains and shoot innocent people. It made no sense. None whatsoever.

      Tom made his way into the barn and laid his bedroll out over the mound of straw he’d slept upon the last several nights. He hadn’t lied. There had been plenty of nights he’d slept with no shelter since he’d left Kansas.

      The train robbery had happened only ten miles outside of Oak Grove. A black-and-white paint horse had been tied to the train tracks. The engineer had blown the whistle, hoping to scare off the horse, but when it wouldn’t move, he’d stopped the train, knowing hitting it could derail the locomotive. Witnesses said the train wheels hadn’t stopped turning before Hugh and two others had boarded the train. The robbers’ first stop had been the mail compartment, but upon not finding any money, they’d made their way into the passenger car, demanding everyone turn over their cash and valuables.

      There they’d found what they’d been after. A man from a Kansas City slaughterhouse with a bag of money on his way to buy cattle from Steve Putnam’s ranch. That man was prepared, though, and had pulled out a gun rather than give over the money.

      Stories varied from there. Some said the outlaws fired first, others said it was the slaughterhouse agent. Either way, the slaughterhouse man and two of the outlaws were dead and a young woman was barely alive by the time the train rolled into Oak Grove.

      Everyone’s story was remarkably the same when it came to Hugh. He’d had his face covered, but he’d left the train with a bag of money and ridden off on the horse that had been tied to the tracks.

      Tom lay down and intertwined his fingers behind his head. The description of the horse had been his only lead when he’d left Oak Grove. Black with white markings, namely one particular mark on its left flank. A long white streak that everyone had described in the same way. Like an arrow.

      Not knowing the area well, or maybe he did and was so conceited he wanted to taunt those he stole from, Hugh had ridden right past Steve Putnam’s place. Steve and his wife, Mary, had encountered Hugh on the road, not knowing he’d just robbed the train they were on their way to meet.

      Hugh had stopped at several other places on his way north, never knowing sightings of his horse were what gave a solid path to follow.

      Unfortunately, that path had come to a dead end in northern Nebraska, until Tom had been lucky enough to run into a down-on-his-luck gambler who heard him asking about Hugh’s horse. The man knew the horse because he was the one Hugh had won the animal off. Or swindled him out of was how the man put it. The gambler also knew Hugh’s name and the general vicinity where Hugh’s wife and son lived.

      Tom figured he’d come upon the homestead by pure luck. And right now, staring at the ceiling and listening to Bullet snort and stomp at a fly every now and again, he had to wonder if it was good or bad luck that had brought him to Clara’s side.

      She’d needed help, that was a given, but the fact he’d been the one to provide it was eating at his insides. He wasn’t here as some general all-around nice guy who fixed up broken barn doors and repaired leaky roofs. He was a lawman set upon finding her husband and taking him back to Kansas to stand trial for his crimes. When that happened, she’d hate him. Billy would, too, and that was gnawing away at his conscience like a coyote on a fresh kill.

      In Tom’s eyes, Hugh wasn’t much of a husband or father, but there had to be a reason Clara stayed here, waiting for him to return. It was called love. The very thing that could tear a person apart like no other. He’d seen it numerous times. And he’d seen people who by rights were completely unlovable, yet there always seemed to be someone else who’d give their life for that same person, all because they loved them.

      His hand slid inside his pocket, where it fiddled with the badge he’d taken off before riding into the homestead. His other hand was on his vest, right where the badge had left two tiny and permanent holes. He’d seen Clara’s face today, more than once, gazing fixedly at that spot. She’d never said anything, but the way she wouldn’t look him in the eye after staring at his vest had him believing she’d figured it out. Knew why he was here.

      Up until tonight, she hadn’t mentioned her husband, and he hadn’t asked. Billy had said more than enough for him to know he had the right homestead. For some reason, one he couldn’t quite explain, he’d refrained from calling her Mrs. Wilson. Actually, he only called her ma’am. In the full scheme of things, that didn’t mean much, but from the time he’d entered the house and saved her from hitting the floor, he’d felt a draw to her. An uncanny one that just couldn’t be explained. He felt sorry for her, that was a given, but this went beyond sorrow.

      His reputation of being a straight-shooting lawman who stuck to the law and didn’t let anything get in the way of that was the reason why the folks of Oak Grove had singled him out and asked him to move to their small town when their acting sheriff was killed during the Indian Wars. He’d been proud of his reputation, proud to serve the town, and hadn’t let a single resident down.

      Oak Grove’s mayor, Josiah Melbourne, who, for Tom to keep on the straight and narrow, was probably the most trying man in town, had known about how Julia had been killed during a stagecoach robbery years ago and how, as a newly sworn-in deputy, Tom had brought her murderer in and seen justice was served. That was what Melbourne, and the entire town of Oak Grove, wanted again, and that was what he had to do.

      Whether Hugh had a family or not shouldn’t matter. In most cases it wouldn’t, because in most cases he wouldn’t have met them.

      Maybe that was what he should do something about. Hendersonville was a two-day ride. He could travel there and get the local sheriff to gather up a posse to stake out the place and arrest Hugh.

      No, he had no way of knowing if Hugh would show up here or not. He had to get back out there, find Hugh’s trail. When he found him and arrested him, Clara wouldn’t know it had been him.

      But she would eventually find out. And where would that leave her and Billy? She had no income, no way of surviving without the money Hugh dropped off at intervals. That was what it appeared happened. Billy said his father came home every once in a while with lots of presents and money for Clara to give to the neighbors to buy supplies for them whenever they traveled to Hendersonville.

      The boy said he’d never been to Hendersonville. Not once. And that Clara hadn’t, either.

      In all aspects, if anyone was to ask him, he’d say Hugh Wilson, outlawing aside, should rot in jail for the way he treated his wife and son.

      * * *