“Gambling? On my sons?” Pa’s voice rose.
“Don’t get in a squawk. I put an end to the betting pretty quick, but still. It’s all over town that nobody expects Bowie to find a wife. And if he doesn’t, what are you going to do? Kick him off the ranch? Have him stay on, but working for his brothers instead of alongside them? That will go over real well.”
Pa was silent for a while, and Bowie knew he was thinking it over. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll admit, when I thought up this scheme, it was Bowie I worried about the most.”
Bowie reached up and touched the patch covering his left eye socket, letting his fingers trail down his puckered and shiny cheek … well, shiny except for where the black powder of the explosion that had taken his eye had embedded itself under his skin like a tattoo.
A freak.
A monster.
An embarrassment to his family.
He’d heard and thought them all.
Turning on his heel, he strode back down the hallway to the staircase, treading quietly up the steps to his room at the back of the house.
Minutes later, he was packed. Saddlebags thrown over his shoulder, papers rolled and under his arm, gun belt wrapped around his waist, and a scrap of linen and lace that he’d kept for more than ten years tucked into his pocket. He clomped down the stairs, not caring if anyone heard him this time, snatched up his rifle from the hall tree, snapped his fingers at Stonewall, and left El Regalo.
He refused to look back. Either his plan would work, or he’d just keep riding.
The sun was setting as he rode into Hartville, and he was grateful for the concealing dusk as he headed down a back alley toward his brother, Houston’s, hardware store. Stonewall trotted at his stirrup, nose raised to all the unfamiliar smells of town.
Houston opened the back door to Bowie’s knock. His blue eyes took in Bowie and Stonewall, and then he glanced up and down the alley. “Trouble? Is it Pa?”
Bowie ducked under the door frame. “Pa’s fine.” Fine and still meddling in his sons’ lives.
“Then what are you doing in town? You never come to town.”
Coralee, Houston’s new bride, swept down the shop, and Bowie turned so his right side was toward her, tipping his chin so his long hair swung forward. “I’m going away for a little while, and there’s a couple things I need you to do for me while I’m gone.” He dug into the inside pocket of his buckskin jacket, drawing out the folded papers.
“Going away?” Coralee asked. She twisted one of her ringlets around her finger.
“Yes, ma’am.” Bowie shifted his weight, not looking at her. He’d known her for years, but now she was his sister-in-law. He was at a loss to know how to act around the bevy of females that had invaded his family, so he fell back on saying as little as possible.
She laughed, and he tensed, as he did every time a woman laughed. Was she laughing at him?
“When are you going to call me Coralee? Ma’am sounds so formal.”
He jerked his chin to let her know he heard. Handing his papers to Houston, he said, “Can you get started on this for me? On the rise above the Sabinal where Austin shot that big buck when we were kids. And can you put my horse up at the livery? He’s tied out back. I’m taking Stonewall with me, but could you tell Travis to have Robbie keep an eye on Clara for me? I’m pretty sure she’s going to whelp in about six weeks.”
Houston scanned the pages, flipping through them. “A house?” Bowie could just about see the lists of needed items forming in Houston’s head. Lumber, doors, windows, nails, shingles.
“Where did you get these plans?”
“Can you do it or not?”
“Of course I can. Just how long do you expect to be gone?”
“A while.” Maybe forever.
“How soon do you want this done?”
“By the end of next month. Hire whoever you have to. I need to hustle to make the evening stage.” He nodded to Coralee. “Ma’am.”
Houston followed after him. “Wait, you want me to build you a house in not even five weeks? What are you planning? When will you be back? Does anyone else know you’re leaving? What do I tell the family?”
Bowie kept on walking, Stonewall trotting at his side. As he settled himself into the stage bound for San Antonio, he gripped his rifle barrel and took the scrap of linen out of his pocket, wondering if he was the biggest fool in Christendom, and if he had the courage to take the next step in his plan. He rubbed the last few threads of the monogram that remained on the fabric. Stonewall sat on the floor between his boots, looking up at him as if questioning his sanity. Bowie couldn’t blame the dog. He was wondering, too.
Pa’s demand that his sons marry hung over him like a sword, and his brothers’ pity and concern twisted like a knife.