William Johnstone - Bounty Hunter

Packard didn’t want to, that much was clear. He glared darkly at Luke, who saw a promise in the man’s eyes that the skirmish wasn’t over. But the soldier turned and stalked off along the boardwalk, his shorter compatriot hurrying to keep up with him.

Wolford turned to Luke, Emily, and Peabody and smiled ingratiatingly. “I’m sorry about that unpleasantness. Unfortunately, too many soldiers haven’t gotten it through their heads yet that the war is over.” He put out a hand to Peabody. “Vincent Wolford.”

The man’s accent marked him as being from somewhere in New England. He was about forty, with a lean face, dark hair, and thick, salt-and-pepper side-whiskers. His suit was a subdued blue, and he wore a black beaver hat.

Wolford wasn’t just a carpetbagger, Luke thought. He was a boss carpetbagger.

Peabody hesitated, clearly not wanting to shake hands with any Yankee, but Wolford had kept the little soldier from shooting Luke. After a moment, he took Wolford’s hand and clasped it briefly. “Linus Peabody.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Peabody.” Wolford smiled at Emily. “And this is your granddaughter, I expect? I can see the resemblance.”

“My name’s Emily. I ain’t much on shakin’ hands with Yankees, though.”

Wolford smiled. “That’s all right, Miss Peabody. A perfectly understandable attitude, considering all the upheavals that have taken place. Believe me, I know what you’re going through.”

Luke didn’t believe that for a second. Wolford had the smooth look of a man who had always been rich and gotten whatever he wanted.

“Or perhaps it’s not Miss Peabody,” Wolford went on as he turned to Luke. “Are you the lady’s husband, sir?”

“That’s Luke—”

“Luke Smith. I’m a friend of the family, that’s all.”

“I see.” Wolford glanced at Luke’s legs and the crutch still in his hand. “You were wounded in the war?”

“That’s right.”

“A terrible shame.”

Luke was aware that Emily and her grandfather were looking at him curiously, no doubt wondering why he had given Wolford a false name. Without much thought, it had popped out of his mouth. He’d been brooding a lot lately—about the stolen gold and the deaths of his friends—and hated to think the name Jensen would ever be linked to such a shameful failure. That probably had something to do with it.

And the fact he instinctively didn’t trust Vincent Wolford.

“Colonel Morrison, the commander of the troops in this area, is a good friend of mine,” Wolford went on. “I’ll have a word with him and ask if he could order his men to treat the citizens with a bit more respect. After all, we’re all partners now in rebuilding the South. If we’re going to work together, we should get along, shouldn’t we?”

“We don’t want trouble with anybody,” Peabody said, which didn’t really answer Wolford’s rhetorical question.

“Of course not.” The man smiled and lifted a hand to the brim of his beaver hat. “Well, good day to you folks.”

As Wolford strolled away, Peabody climbed quickly to the wagon seat and told Emily, “Get on the wagon, girl. We’re gettin’ outta here.”

The old-timer turned the vehicle around and got the mules headed back toward the farm. Peabody muttered under his breath about how they shouldn’t have come to Dobieville today in the first place.

Emily turned around to lean over the back of the seat. “You shouldn’t have got mixed up in that, Luke. That big, dumb Yankee never would’ve been able to hit me. I’m too fast for the likes of him.”

Luke shifted on the wagon bed. “Maybe so, but it’s bad enough I had to sit by while you and Linus loaded the supplies. You can’t expect me to do nothing while that soldier attacked you.”

“You almost got yourself killed, that’s what you did.”

Luke couldn’t argue with that.

“If that slick-talkin’ Yankee carpetbagger hadn’t come along, that mean little varmint would’ve blowed your head off.”

“More than likely,” Luke admitted with a sigh.

“And what was that business about callin’ yourself Smith ?” Peabody asked. “Have you been lyin’ to us all along, son? Are you some sort of criminal on the run from the law?”

“No,” Luke answered without hesitation. “Absolutely not. I may not have told you quite everything, Linus, but I give you my word, nobody’s looking for me, lawman or otherwise.”

Peabody nodded. “Reckon I can accept that. Just like I can accept it’s your business what you call yourself.”

“Well, it may take me some gettin’ used to, after callin’ you Jensen all this time.” Emily paused. “Just don’t get yourself killed on account of me, Luke Smith or Jensen or whatever the hell name you want to use.”

Luke laughed. “I’ll certainly try not to.”

When they got back to the farm, Emily and her grandfather helped Luke down from the wagon before they unloaded the supplies. He stood at the back of the vehicle on his crutches and said, “If you want to drape that flour sack over my shoulder, Linus, I might be able to carry it in.”

“There ain’t no need of that,” Peabody said. “You don’t have to prove anything to us, Luke.”

“That’s right.” Emily turned away from the tailgate with the crate in her hands. “You already do plenty to help out around—

Oh!” she cried out as the heavy crate slipped from her grasp and fell on Luke’s right foot.

Luke took a sharp breath.

“Hell and damnation!” Emily exclaimed. “Oh, Luke, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to drop that on you. It must’ve—”

He smiled as she stopped short in what she was saying. “Must have hurt? Only a little. That’s one thing I don’t have to worry about.”

Looking flustered, Emily picked up the crate. “Well, when we get inside, I want to take a look at your foot anyway. You could be hurt and not even know it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Luke said.

A few minutes later, he was sitting in the rocking chair. Emily knelt in front of him and took off his boot and sock. There was a red mark on the top of his foot where the crate had landed, but no blood. Emily poked around on the spot.

Luke blinked.

“Doesn’t feel like any bones are broken.” Without looking up, she pulled his sock back onto the foot. “You were lucky.”

“That’s me. Lucky Luke Smith.”

Emily snorted.

After they ate a hasty midday meal, Emily and Peabody went out to work in the fields, leaving Luke sitting in the rocker. When he was sure they were gone, he put his hands on his thighs and squeezed as hard as he could, working the muscles. He had succeeded in covering up his reaction so Emily and her grandfather hadn’t noticed it, but it had hurt like blazes when that crate fell on his foot, the most sensation he had felt in one of his feet for a long time. And it had been repeated when Emily poked at the site of the injury.

It excited him as no pain ever had.

He stared at his legs, willing them with every fiber of his being to move, but all he could summon up were a few twitches.

He slumped back in the rocking chair, suddenly breathless and exhausted. That might be the most my legs will ever move, he told himself. But his heart soared inside him, anyway. For the first time in months he had real hope again.

Hope that someday he might be able to have the things he most wanted . . .

Emily.

And vengeance.

CHAPTER 19

Over the next few days, Luke struggled against the impatience he felt as he looked for another sign that his legs might be improving. Any time he was alone at the cabin, he moved them as much as he could, sometimes unconsciously straining his other muscles until he was breathing hard and sweat popped out on his face. He rubbed his legs and then pounded on them in frustration when they failed to respond as much as he wanted them to.