“I have been in Dewitt County, señor, along with forty men including Captain McNelly.”
“The Sutton-Taylor feud?”
Juan Carlos nodded. “The trial is over.”
“Where is McNelly off to now?”
“You must not speak of this . . . McNelly is ill, señor. I fear his time on this earth is short. Que Dios bendiga su alma. May God bless his soul.” Juan Carlos tapped his forehead, then his chest, making the sign of the cross.
Josiah had never seen Juan Carlos make any reference to a religion and was surprised by the show of it. “I was surprised when I met McNelly the first time.”
Juan Carlos nodded. “He is a short, wiry, tubercular man.”
“Consumption has most certainly taken its toll on him.”
“Sí, that is why his family moved to Texas in the first place.”
“He is ill again?”
“Still,” Juan Carlos said. “I think he is all worn out from watching over the feud.”
“So he’s back to Burton?”
“To the cotton farm, sí.”
“That leaves you free, then?” Josiah asked.
“I was never captured. Just serving a role, honoring my brother’s legacy.”
“I miss Captain Fikes, but I cannot imagine your loss.”
“We have all lost something. Y vamos a perder otra vez, sí tenemos la suerte. And we will lose again, if we are fortunate . . .”
“. . . To live long enough,” Josiah finished the sentence. “Captain Fikes used to say that.”
“Sí, he did.” Silence filled the room again. Only it did not last as long as the last time. Juan Carlos stiffened, fidgeted in his chair. “I came back in hopes that all was well with you, mi amigo.”
“And so it is,” Josiah said.
“But I have to ask you to leave again.”
Josiah stood up. His coffee cup was empty. “I can’t leave. Not until I hear from Captain Feders. If then. They are cutting the size of the companies, and I fear I may be released from the Rangers.”
“For some reason, I do not believe that you see that as a bad thing.”
“You are right, my friend. Lyle needs me.”
“Captain McNelly needs you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked that you accompany me. I am sorry, señor.”
“Where?” Josiah’s jaw clenched, but he would not release his anger on his friend.
“To Mexico.”
“Why in the blue devil would I want to go to Mexico?”
“To stop Liam O’Reilly. El Tejón.”
“The Badger.”
“Sí,” Juan Carlos said, standing up, facing Josiah, looking him squarely in the eye. “I know of his bounty on your head. Have been offered it myself. You will never be safe as long as he lives.”
“Why is he in Mexico?”
“To negotiate an alliance with Juan Cortina. If that happens, you are surely a dead man, Josiah Wolfe, and there is nothing I can do to save you.”
CHAPTER 23
Josiah stood at the door and watched Juan Carlos disappear into the darkness. He was troubled by what he had learned from his friend. In no way, shape, or form did Josiah expect to be ready to leave for Mexico anytime soon. It would take two days at the least—to which Juan Carlos had reluctantly agreed—to make arrangements for Lyle’s care and safety, as well as prepare for the journey.
Juan Carlos had warned Josiah that each minute Liam O’Reilly lived as a free man was one more minute that both he and Lyle lived in the shadow of certain death. It was a warning Josiah was well aware of, took note of, but did not acknowledge vocally. Surely this was not the warning Pedro had meant to give . . . How would he know?
Fear in his own voice was not something Josiah wanted to hear, and he knew it would be there if he spoke. Juan Carlos would not look down on him, but still, Josiah had learned a long time ago that fear was worse than any kind of unseen sickness he had ever encountered. Once it was set free, it was deadly.
There was plenty to fear. Outlaws had came for Lyle once before, knew the boy was Josiah’s weak spot, and there was nothing stopping them from plotting and acting on a better-thought-out second attempt.
There was no question that Josiah understood the danger he was in in Austin, but at this late hour there was nothing he could do about any of it. Tomorrow would have to come first.
Josiah closed the door to the house and stood just inside, resting his back against the door.
He could still smell the coffee he’d shared with Juan Carlos, hear Lyle breathing in the next room. Somewhere in the distance a dog—not a coyote—barked lazily, once every minute or so, like it was bored, not alarmed. A train might shake the house in the middle of the night as it made its run through Austin and then on north, but for now, everything seemed quiet, like it should, in its place.
That realization didn’t calm Josiah. His mind was running furiously, like a pig that had slipped loose of the butcher, its neck just barely nicked. His whole body ached, including both new wounds and old. He felt sick and tired—the previous days had finally caught up with him, and now he had to think of leaving again.
His stomach lurched, and for the first time in a long time, he honestly didn’t know what he was going to do.
There was a time in his life when he’d found comfort on difficult days in the bed next to his wife, Lily, snuggled together in warmth, passion, and acceptance—but now, nearly three years after her death, he could barely hear her voice or see her face in his memory.
No matter how hard he had tried to keep Lily alive in his mind, her image kept fading away, slipping just out of his grasp, almost like she had never existed in the first place.
Lyle favored Lily, had her hair and her button nose. Sometimes, Josiah was sure Lyle had inherited Lily’s eyes, too, soft blue, the color of a pale summer day, but mostly he thought that it was just wishful thinking, hoping that Lily, maybe in some form or another, could watch him through their son’s eyes, watch out for all of them like an angel. But Josiah, in the wake of Lily’s death, was reluctant to believe in a greater life after death, or the existence of power, spirit, or hope. Lyle had Lyle’s eyes. Lily couldn’t see him any more than he could see her.
Loneliness enveloped Josiah then, adding to his physical pain, but he pushed away his grief as best he could, settling in for the night.
His senses were like exposed nerves.
Every sound seemed loud and dangerous. The creaking and settling of the house sounded like a series of odd unmatched footsteps, and the wind carried voices from far away—all plotting against him.
He knew he was letting his fear get to him, that he was overwhelmed.
He chided himself, screamed silently in his mind at his own weaknesses, because he had surely been in worse situations than being home alone with a sleeping two-year-old boy in the next room.
War and capture by the Comanche had been more uncertain—but then he never totally feared for his survival. He knew that the right opportunity would present itself so he could escape the Indians, or conquer the Northern Aggressors, and return home.
Now he was not so sure of victory—or what to do next.