Not for the first time, Carson regretted not having used a summer name when he had finally circled Ferguson and decided this was where he wanted to fold his wings and make his nest. In his eagerness to find sanctuary, he had relied too much on hiding his trail and not enough on hiding himself. When Miz Cline had asked his name, he never thought of giving something made up. He’d blurted out “Clay Carson” and was stuck with it. Explaining away another name after giving his real name would have drawn too much unwanted attention.

  He should have ridden on, but he took a liking to her smile and jovial demeanor. It happened that Bellamy and his missus were in the store when he came up short paying. The farmer had offered him a job on the family cotton farm. The hand who had worked for them over the past two seasons had left because of family sickness down in San Antonio, and the farmer needed help with such a large crop.

  Bile rose in his throat and nearly gagged him. How dare Lemuel Jones summon him like this? He turned and followed the telegraph agent to the narrow whitewashed building where telegraph wires angled down from two different directions. The town provided a way station for the electric communication. After the railroad had bypassed them by a couple dozen miles, this was the only thing keeping Ferguson from drying up and blowing away in the ceaseless prairie wind.

  The wind tugged at his coat as he walked, bringing with it the sharp, dry scent of sunbaked mesquite and the ever-present dust that clung to boots and bone alike. His boots scuffed across the warped wooden planks of the boardwalk, echoing against shuttered windows and rusted hinges. The town was quiet, too quiet for his liking.

  “A stopover and nothing else,” Carson grumbled as he went to the office door. He shouldn’t have stayed. He had been found far too easily.

  He kicked the door open. It slammed hard into the wall with a sound like a gunshot. The agent jumped to his feet and turned even paler. One shaking hand was pressed to his mouth as if anything he might say would be wrong.

  “Where?” Carson bellowed like a wounded bull as he stepped into the office. “Where’d the telegram come from?”

  “I-it’s on the ’gram, Mr. Carson. You got all the information I got. Really.”

  “Has anyone been poking around, asking for me?”

  “A stranger, you mean?” The man’s mouth opened and closed like a fish with a hook caught in its lip. “Not recently.”

  Carson stepped closer. His hand ran up and down his right side, hunting for a six-shooter that wasn’t there. The telegrapher saw the action and went even paler. Only gunmen moved like that. He wobbled a mite and braced himself against the counter.

  “Don’t you go passing out on me,” Carson warned, wagging his finger. “You won’t like how I’d bring you back.”

  The man’s mouth gaped and closed a couple more times. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and sweat beaded his forehead.

  “I … I promise not to faint, Mr. Carson.” He wasn’t going to say more, but the silence that descended on the office felt like a funeral shroud. “It … He came ’round a couple months back. Maybe that. My memory’s not good for things like dates, but I know the code. I can—” He swallowed hard when Carson glared at him. “He asked if I knew a whole passel of men. You were the only one he named that I’d ever heard of.”

  “Describe him.” Carson pounded on the counter with his fists. The drumbeat caused the telegrapher to jump with every thud.

  “Nothing special. Just a trail bum. I don’t remember much about him, but he wore eyeglasses. The kind that pinch down on your nose. And …”

  “And?” Carson stopped his drumming and leaned closer. “What else?”

  “He had hair the color of straw. And he wore his gun down low on his hip, tied down. Like a gunslick. He moved quicklike, eyes darting about. Little beady black eyes. Like a snake. I didn’t much like his look, but he was nothing but polite.”

  “He asked after me but never came around the farm?”

  “I told him you worked for Mr. Bellamy, so he shoulda been able to find you real easy.”

  “A month or two back? And now I get a telegram?”

  “From this here Lemuel Jones in Hidetown. I’m not for certain sure where that town is, but there was an outlaw by that name—”

  Clay Carson stormed from the office, leaving the man behind him stuttering, trying to explain, apologizing, and offering to make amends. He wasn’t sure what kind of amends the man thought he could make, but Carson knew that he himself needed to be gentled or he’d buck halfway to the sun. Not even a drink would settle him down. Not even an entire bottle of Old Crow.

  Stride long and almost running, he went to the general store. Dottie Cline was nowhere to be seen, but her husband worked to patch the cracker barrel just inside the door. Ezra Cline looked up, his sour expression never changing. For once, Carson’s mood matched the merchant’s.

  “A month or two ago, did a man come around asking after me?”

  Cline cocked his head to one side. Being disturbed while patching a mouse hole in the bottom of the barrel irritated him more than usual. Then he saw the storm cloud that swirled around his usually quiet, peaceable customer.

  “Nope.”

  “He’d have asked after me or men named Potter or Wylie.” He took in a deep breath and added, “Or Lemuel Jones.”

  Cline frowned. “Said there wasn’t. I loaded Frank’s supplies into your buckboard for you. Put it on his bill. Tell your boss he’ll have to settle up ’fore I give him another dime’s worth of credit.”

  Cline always sent Carson back to the farm with the same admonition. It meant nothing. And the merchant had no reason to lie about anyone asking after Lemuel Jones and his friends. Carson climbed into the driver’s box and took the reins. The mule brayed loudly and began pulling. It knew the way back to the cotton farm better than Carson. He gave the animal its head so he had a chance to look all around.

  The uneasy feeling of being watched grew as he drove along the dusty, double-rutted road. He tried to make sense of what had crashed down around his ears. If he never heard from Jones again, it’d be a day too soon.

  But who was the man who’d ferreted out his hiding place for Lemuel Jones? It wasn’t anywhere near describing any of the others in the Dirty Creek Gang.

  It certainly wasn’t Jones.

  “If that old reprobate had found me months back, why leave and send a telegram now? Especially if he’s actually dying?” he asked aloud.

  None of that made a lick of sense to him.

  He craned his neck around to study his back trail as the mule turned up the narrow lane leading to the distant farmhouse. Carson felt a bit stupid. All he had was a gut feeling of someone after him today. He’d not caught even a flash of anyone on his trail. If it had been a lawman, there was no reason to be so coy. And Jones had found him a couple months earlier.

  “Why now?” He shook his head.

  The rest of the day passed in a slow burn. Carson couldn’t shake the tension that coiled in his gut like a rattler beneath dry leaves. Every shadow felt too long, every distant noise too sharp. Something was stirring, something he couldn’t see just yet.

  Bellamy’s voice brought him out of his thoughts.

  “You gonna sit in that wagon all day, or are you gonna unload the supplies?” A husky man of medium height, with hands the size of mason jars, pointed to the cargo. Frank Bellamy sounded gruff, but he had a decent heart beating under his faded bib overalls. After all, he had given Carson a job weeding the cotton fields and saved him the need of asking others around Ferguson for a job.

  That was even more generous of the man, since he had two young teenaged sons to help out with the chores, to tend the fields, and to do work Carson did at half the speed. The only skill Carson brought to the farm that had been lacking was his skill as a cook. All that meant was he hadn’t poisoned any of the Bellamys since he’d hired on. Miz Bellamy was a fragile thing, sickly and hardly able to do more than the laundry and some cleaning. She spent much of her day sewing and looking out a bay window at the prairie. Carson had taken over the cooking chores to give her an easier time of it. From what the two boys said, he was a better cook than their mother had been.

  Carson found it hard to believe how their ma wasn’t a good cook, but the two boys weren’t inclined to sugarcoat anything. Like their pa, if something displeased them, they said so right out loud. Even Miz Bellamy complimented him on his culinary skills, but why shouldn’t she? She didn’t have to do more than fix a simple lunch while Carson prepared both breakfast and supper. It had taken a few weeks for him to work out a schedule that allowed that. The hardest meal was supper after a day in the field, but he had learned how to get stews made that took a long time to cook, but without much tending. The family might not eat fancy food, but it ate well enough. Some days, Carson considered learning how to make a decent fruit pie. So far, though, his efforts had been sorry.

  He hopped down, hesitated when his fingers brushed across his rifle, then left it to move the supplies into the house. He loaded the sacks of flour and cornmeal, jars of pickled beets, and a small bolt of cloth Miz Bellamy had requested. He moved like a man trying to burn off a storm inside him. Every footstep had a purpose; every lifted box came down with just a bit too much force. The creak of the floorboards and the thud of burlap on the table matched the agitation in his gut.

  Inside the house, the stillness was a comfort. It smelled of soap, stove ash, and lemon oil—clean, lived-in, the smell of honest work. The ticking of the old mantel clock matched the rhythm of his thoughts. He paused long enough to glance through the open doorway into the dim parlor, where Miz Bellamy lay resting beneath a faded quilt. Her breathing was light, like the whisper of silk, barely ruffling the lace collar of her nightdress.

  Carson moved to the kitchen and got to work fixing a decent meal for the other men. They’d been working in the field while he’d been riding into town. Miz Bellamy likely was taking a nap to build up her strength. He prepped with quick, precise motions, hands moving instinctively. The skillet hissed with bacon fat, and soon the smell of frying meat and warm biscuits filled the farmhouse.

  He had used some of the flour to bake biscuits. When they were golden brown, he called for the others to come eat. The lady of the house wasn’t up to joining them.

  He stood for a while by the window, watching the boys move through the rows of cotton, their silhouettes framed against the low setting sun. Shadows grew long across the yard, stretching like fingers toward the barn. The wind stirred the clothesline and made the drying sheets whisper secrets he couldn’t quite hear.

  Then came Bellamy’s question, one that had been hanging unspoken between them like a dusty chandelier swaying in still air.

  “What’s eatin’ you, Clay? I ain’t seen you this pensive since the day you wandered up the road to the Clines’ store.”

  He denied being preoccupied, but Frank Bellamy wasn’t having any of it. He knew Carson too well. The farmer leaned his weight against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest, a crooked smile pulling at the edge of his wind-chapped mouth.

  “It’s like this,” Carson said. “I got word that a … friend is at death’s door.”

  Bellamy cocked his head, the smile vanishing. “He wants you to come by and say goodbye ’fore he kicks the bucket?”

  “That’s what he claimed.”

  “But you’re not inclined? Is it too far? I can see not wantin’ to go if your friend’s farther away than, oh, New Orleans. That’d be a powerful long trip, even if you caught a train out of San Angelo.”

  “Closer,” Carson allowed. “He’s closer than Louisiana. But I’m hesitating.”

  He considered his words. “Did anyone come by a month or two back asking after me?”

  From the scowl on the farmer’s face, he knew the answer. As with Ezra Cline, no one had asked after him. And why should they if they learned all they needed to know from the telegrapher? Ferguson was where he’d come to roost—and that was all the blond stranger needed to know.

  None of it made sense.

  “We’d miss you if you went to see your friend,” Bellamy said after a long pause, the sentiment as close to tender as Frank ever got.

  “It’d be hard for you and the boys if my stay lasted into harvest season. And with Miz Bellamy the way she is …”

  Frank Bellamy shrugged. “We done just fine ’fore you drifted through. We can do it again.” He belched behind a meaty hand, then settled down. “Hoeing cotton and pickin’ them bolls clean is a chore, but we can do it by ourselves. Havin’ someone who can fix a decent meal—now, that’s what we’d miss.” He belched again. “That’s what I’d miss. Can’t speak for John or Teddy. Molly can do more’n she has been, to help out some more if the need arises. We’ll get by.”

  Carson gave a ghost of a smile. “I should have trained the boys in the ways of fine cuisine.”

  “Cuisine? Oh, that’s one of them French words, ain’t it?”

  “It means cooking.”

  “Naw, better you don’t teach either of ’em. They’d up and hire on to a cattle drive as cooks and I’d lose the pair of them. You think on it, Clay. If you want to be at your friend’s bedside, I’ll understand.”

  Frank Bellamy went into the bedroom and lit a lamp. He sat on the bed and spoke softly with his invalid wife. She sat up, and he put his arms around her and rocked gently.

  Carson took his leave, putting away the last of the cleaned dishes. They’d be needed for breakfast.

  He retrieved his rifle from the buckboard and trudged toward the barn. It had been a long day. A confusing day. One of the Bellamy boys had put the mule in its stall and fed the sturdy beast. Carson appreciated the gesture. That was his job, and he was thankful for the help. They took after their pa when it came to helping others. He walked past the stall, careful to avoid the mule’s back hooves, should Solomon take it into its head to take some perverse delight in kicking at him.

  Hand on the door into the room at the back of the barn where he slept, he froze. After a year on the farm, he had learned all the usual noises. Sometimes in the spring after a rain, the cotton grew so fast it crackled, just like a field of corn might. But this wasn’t a normal sound. It certainly was one to turn him cautious.

  Gripping the rifle more tightly in his right hand, finger curled around the trigger, he tugged at the door. His small room was dark. He noticed immediately that the window above his bed stood wide open. Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, he stepped into the room.

  Heavy footfalls outside the window sent him rushing across the room. It took only three long strides. Carson jumped onto the bed and peered out into the night. He rested the rifle against the window frame and started to aim at a rapidly disappearing shadow. If he’d had more than a sliver of waning moonlight, he’d have fired. His target melted away, robbing him of any real shot.

  He hopped to the floor and looked around. Someone had rooted around in his room. His gear was scattered about. He started gathering it to put back in place when he saw the white square on his bed.

  A knife driven through the paper held it smack in the middle of the mattress. He pulled the blade free and tossed it aside. Cheap steel.

  He held up the paper and caught a single vagrant moonbeam that allowed him to read: Stay away from Jones if you want to live.

  CHAPTER 3

  “You mean to kill us, is that it?” John Bellamy stood on the porch, arms crossed and glaring hard at Carson.

  “Your pa’s not that bad a cook,” Carson said, tightening the cinch on his bay. The horse shied, but he followed it and made sure the strap was pulled down tightly to keep the saddle from spinning around the horse’s middle.

  “He won’t try his hand, that’s for sure,” Ted Bellamy said, moving to stand beside his brother. For a moment, in spite of them being three years apart in age, they looked like twins, standing with the same posture, both the same height, each with arms folded belligerently. “He’ll force one of us to fix the vittles.”

  Carson had to laugh. The sound felt good, uncoiling the knot that had twisted in his gut since the telegram arrived. He brushed off his old Stetson. He’d worn it during his days riding with Lemuel Jones’s gang but had put it aside for the more comfortable straw hat worn by most farmers. It settled down around his ears, causing a brush of thinning brown hair to poke out all around. He needed a haircut, but knew that could wait. A quick stroke over his stubbled chin made him consider growing his beard once more.

  Otherwise, Lemuel Jones might not recognize him. Then he turned bitter. Jones had found him, or his agent had. The man must have reported back the feeble disguise Carson had adopted. Cutting off his beard altered his looks a little. Losing his hair the way he had was more of a disguise. Even that wasn’t likely to fool any lawman intent on tracking him down.

  He stepped up, settled into the saddle, and looked at the pair of youngsters. They might not be good cooks now, but they’d learn, especially if they had to eat their own fixings.

  “Tell your pa I left a pile of notes on how to fix what you like best.”

  “Recipes,” grumbled John Bellamy.

  “Follow the instructions and you won’t starve.”

  “He said you’re welcome back anytime, Clay. We’ll need another field hand come picking season.”

  “Tell your ma goodbye for me. I know she was feeling poorly and couldn’t come out.”

  The boys mumbled something about their ma, then John said, “Be careful. Safe travels.”

  A knot formed in his throat. He felt as if he was leaving home and a settled life behind. Clay Carson had no idea what he would be riding into. Lemuel Jones’s summoning him spoke to danger. But he wanted to see his old friend once more, even if he was lying. Jones had a way of stretching the truth, but Carson felt in his gut the telegram carried nothing but cold facts. Lemuel was dying.

  Even if he had followed his first impulse to ignore it and stay on the Bellamy farm, the bespectacled blond owlhoot dogging his steps had convinced him otherwise.