“I gotta go.” Austin raced through the barn, mounted Black Thunder, and galloped into the night.
An hour later, he pounded on the door of the second floor landing over the general store. When it opened, his voice lodged in his throat. Why hadn’t he considered that he might see Becky if he came here? Why did the pain have to slice through his heart, ripping open the fresh wound?
God Almighty, he wished he could hate her. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to yell at her. But most of all, he wanted to hold her, her body flush against his, her warmth thawing the chill that permeated his soul.
“I need to talk to Cameron,” he croaked.
The shock reflected in her blue eyes quickly gave way to anger. Becky planted her hands firmly on his chest and shoved hard, causing him to stumble back-ward. “Well, he doesn’t need to talk to you. How dare you hit—”
“Becky!”
She pivoted around. Cameron stood in the doorway, one eye discolored and swollen. “Drew’s calling you. I’ll take care of this.”
Austin watched her jaw tighten before she gave him a scathing glare and shouldered her way past Cameron to go inside.
“Did you want to come in?” Cameron asked.
Austin shook his head, wondering why he’d come to the man who had betrayed him. He walked to the railing and stared at the town, light from the lanterns fighting the darkness. Cameron’s quiet, hesitant footsteps as he came to stand beside Austin brought back memories of confidences shared.
“All these years I thought Duncan had shot Boyd and arranged the evidence to put the blame on me.” He glanced sideways at the friend from his youth, suddenly realizing that losing Cameron’s friendship hurt almost as much as losing Becky’s love. “But our paths crossed this evening and I realized I was wrong. Rawley said something, though, that got me to thinking. What if Boyd didn’t write my name in the dirt—”
“He did. Sheriff Larkin took me to the place where he found Boyd. He’d written your name in the dirt as plain as day.”
“What if he didn’t mean me, but meant the town? What if he didn’t know the name of the man who killed him, but he knew that he came from Austin?”
“That’s grasping at straws, isn’t it?”
“That’s all I’ve got,” Austin said. “People avoid me like I have tick fever or something worse. I knew the men on the jury had voted guilty because of the evidence, but I never thought they actually believed deep down that I murdered Boyd. I’ve got to prove I’m innocent, and I can only do that if I figure out who killed him. Did he have any business in Austin?”
“Boyd never confided in me. Sometimes he’d leave for a few days, but he never divulged where he went.”
Austin took a few steps back. “Reckon it won’t hurt to ride into Austin and see if I can find out anything.”
“Guess I’d do the same if I were in your boots, but watch your back. If the man who killed Boydisin Austin, I don’t imagine he’s going to welcome the prospect of being found.”
Austin turned for the stairs, halted, and glanced over his shoulder. “If I ever hear that Becky isn’t happy, I’ll finish what I started out back this evening.”
Cameron held his gaze. “Fair enough.”
Austin hurried down the remaining steps. Some bastard had stolen five years of his life. Austin intended to make damn sure he paid dearly for every moment.
Chapter 2
Swearing viciously, Austin glared at the jagged cut on the underside of Black Thunder’s hoof. He released the horse’s foreleg, unfolded his aching body, and jerked his dusty black Stetson from his head. Exhausted, resenting the dirt working its way into every crease of his body, he stood beneath the April sun feeling as though he’d stepped into the middle of August.
Using the sleeve of his cambric shirt, he wiped the sweat beading his brow, grimacing as pain erupted across his back—from the middle of his left shoulder to just below his ribs. He had expected the gash he’d received during the brawl with Duncan to have healed by now, but he supposed riding all day, late into the night, and sleeping on the ground hadn’t been the best treatment for the wound. When he had ridden out of Leighton several days before, he hadn’t considered that he’d have no way to clean or tend the injury. Only one thought had preyed on his mind: The city of Austin might hold the key that would lead him to Boyd’s killer, the man whose guilt would prove Austin’s innocence.
Slipping his fingers into the pocket of his vest, he pulled out the map Dallas had given him. Wearily he studied the lines that marked the start of his journey and his final destination. He stuffed the wrinkled paper back into his pocket. He wouldn’t reach the town tonight.
Settling his hat low over his brow, he sighed heavily. He was in no mood to walk, but the stallion’s injury left him no choice. Gazing toward the distance, he saw smoke spiraling up through the trees. He threaded the reins through his fingers and trudged into the woods. Shafts of sunlight and lengthening shadows wove through the branches, offering him some respite from the damnable heat. With a sense of loss, he remembered a time when he would have appreciated the simple beauty surrounding him. Now he just wanted to get to where he was going.
He heard an occasional thwack as though someone were splitting wood. With the abundance of trees and bushes, he didn’t imagine anyone had to depend on cow chips for a fire.
A wide clearing opened up before him. Lacy white curtains billowed through the open windows of a small white clapboard house. The weathered door stood ajar. Near the house, a scrawny boy wearing a battered hat, threadbare jacket, and worn britches struggled to chop the wood. A large dog napped beneath the shade of a nearby tree. The varying hues of his brown and white fur reminded Austin of a patchwork quilt. As Austin cautiously approached, the dog snapped open its eyes, snarled, and rose slowly to its full height, curling back its lips and deepening its growl.
Moving quickly, the boy dipped down, swung around, and pointed a rifle at Austin. Austin threw his hands in the air. “Whoa! I’m not looking for trouble.”
“What are you lookin’ for?”
