Chapter Three
Nash settled down for the night on a sweet-smelling bed of timothy hay, wrapped in a dry blanket from his saddlebags, finally warm.
Violet Bishop’s rabbit stew had been plain fare, but after a day in the storm, it’d tasted finer than a hotel meal.
He’d finished it off with a hunk of Kate’s salt-rising bread and an apple she’d tucked into his knapsack that morning.
The thought of his Kate had stayed with him long after the last light of the gloaming faded.
Lying with one arm beneath his head, he pictured her in the doorway of their cabin, green dress stirred by the dawn breeze, bravely smiling while her heart was breaking.
I’ll come back to you, Katie, he promised again in the silence, as if the words might ride the road all the way home. At last, the steady drumming of rain on the roof and the slow shifting of animals in their stalls lulled him into sleep.
At dawn, he woke to the same relentless rain. If anything, the storm had deepened in the night. Water hammered the roof overhead with such force, it sounded less like weather and more like angry war drums. Wind shoved at the barn walls until the whole structure gave a low, complaining groan.
Nash lay still for a moment, listening. Somewhere nearby, a horse stamped and snorted. Beyond that came the distant, swollen roar of moving water—an ominous sound that nudged him fully awake.
He reached into his vest for his pocket watch and squinted at its face in the dim gray light. Barely five o’clock. In Barton Creek, he’d have been up an hour by now, Kate busy making them breakfast.
Wonder when the Bishops get out of bed?
Nash stood up, stretched, and pulled on clothes that had dried overnight to a stiff, clammy hardness.
Crossing to the barn door, he looked out at the dismal day and gnawed a corner of his lip.
Across the puddle-ridden yard, no lamplight shone in the windows of the Bishops’ cabin; no thread of chimney smoke lifted through the gray clouds.
Maybe they’re still asleep. Maybe they don’t know what’s coming. If the creek should flood…
Dread tightened his chest, squeezing like a fist. The night before, the creek had already been coursing over its banks, and at this point, the yard looked more like a swamp than solid ground.
Growing concern rising like a tide of heat to flood his throat, Nash turned quickly, saddled Brandy, and led him out into the downpour.
Cold rain soaked him almost immediately, plastering his collar against his neck and running down his shoulders beneath the oilskin. Mud sucked at his boots with every step. To Nash’s dismay, the barnyard had softened enough to feel almost like quicksand, like it might swallow a man whole.
Nash laid a hand on Brandy’s sodden neck and gazed nervously toward the low ground beyond the house. From the looks of the yard and the torrential downpour, Nash feared the worst. No need to ride out for a look at the creek—it had come calling already.
If that creek jumps its banks, it won’t be long before the Bishops are trapped.
He splashed through the yard toward the cabin and pounded hard on the door. “Mrs. Bishop! Mr. Bishop!” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded muffled beneath the rain pinging off the tin roof of the porch.
“Wake up! The creek’s flooding!”
Lightning flashed; mere seconds later, a growling boom drowned out his voice, but Nash kept pounding until he heard something scrape across the floor inside, then the murmur of voices.
Moments later, Violet flung open the door, her hair loose and wild along the shoulders of a worn muslin nightgown.
Once again, she clutched the Winchester in her arms.
“What in the blazes are you yelling about? Hollerin’ fit to scare God-fearing folks half to?—?”
“There’s no time!” Nash snapped, grabbing the rifle and jerking it from her hands. “Listen! The creek’s rising fast. Another hour or two, and it may cut you off—you need to get out now.”
For one long moment, she stared at him, fear and disbelief warring across her rugged face. Then, another crash shook the cabin so hard the windows rattled.
Nash heard Luke curse, then the unmistakable roar of rushing water, accompanied by the crazed squawk of a chicken.
Violet’s gray-blue eyes widened, her lips growing round with horror. Without even trying to grab back the rifle, she stepped back and yelled, “Boys! All of you, get up—now!”
Tucker jumped up the second Nash burst into the room. Pete and Jubal tumbled from pallets on the floor, sleepy-eyed and pale.
“Tucker,” Nash ordered, taking charge, “go hitch up a wagon, if you’ve got one. We’ll take what we can, but we need to move now. If we don’t get to higher ground…”
The boy nodded once; fear flickered across his young face, but he didn’t waste a second. “We got a wagon.” Yanking a pair of threadbare trousers on over his union suit, he pulled his poncho off a peg and darted out into the storm.
Watching his thin shoulders bend beneath the rain, Nash felt a flash of admiration.
Steady as a grown man—maybe steadier than some.
Nash turned to the other boys. “You two, gather up blankets or bedclothes, anything you can toss in the wagon. Mrs. Bishop, get some food and supplies together. Take only what you’ll need for a day or so. Maybe the water will spare some.”
Not even bothering to pull on a dress, the woman hurried to a set of crude wooden shelves and pulled down a tin of coffee, some jars, and sacks of flour and beans. Her expression had grown grim, but she didn’t falter, filling a couple of empty burlap sacks with supplies.
Luke struggled to push himself upright on the bed, his face pale with pain and frustration. “You’ll have to leave me behind,” he rasped, the words weak and thready. “Wagon’s too small to hold everyone. I’m a dead man anyway.”
Nash crossed to him in two strides. “Save your strength,” he said. “We’re getting you out too.” He glanced toward the window, where rain streamed down the panes in silver threads.
Fast, Lord, let us be fast enough.
Hearing Violet’s sudden intake of breath, Nash turned to see water seeping beneath the back door of the cabin, foaming over the plank floor.
“Hurry, everyone. Pete—go help Tucker get that wagon here!” Violet barked.
By the time Tucker had brought the team around, water was sluicing through the yard in muddy waves. Tucker had turned out to be more resourceful than Nash had given him credit for; he’d tied the dairy cows to the back of the wagon and even loaded a small crate of chickens in the bed.
Violet and the younger boys hurried to load the small wagon, which was not large enough, as Luke had said, to hold him and their supplies. Still, they managed to cram in a goodly amount of belongings, possibly most of what they owned.
Once everything had been loaded, Nash strode back into the house and met Luke Bishop’s eye as the rest of the family crowded the doorway behind him.
“If I can get you on a horse, Mr. Bishop, can you ride?”
“Reckon you’d best leave me here.”
“No, Luke!” Violet screamed, pushing past Nash. “I won’t leave you here to die!”
Nash put a gentle hand on her arm, then moved toward the bed. “You heard your wife,” he said. “Tucker, give me a hand here.”
Nash and the boy wrestled Luke up between them.
The man gave a hoarse cry as his useless legs dragged beneath him, and for an instant, his hand clamped down on Nash’s shoulder so hard, it nearly drove him to one knee.
Pride burned in Luke’s eyes, fiercer than pain.
Nash had seen that look before in wounded soldiers and lawmen too hurt to stand.
Some men could face death easier than feeling helpless.
“Easy now,” Nash murmured. “No shame in accepting help when that’s what’ll keep your family alive.”
Together, he and Tucker half-carried, half-dragged Luke through the door and into the storm. Rain lashed at them with a sting as sharp as hail. They were drenched in an instant, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Brandy danced and tossed his head uneasily, but steadied when Nash brought Luke to the stallion’s side.
With Tucker bracing from the other side, Nash got the injured man into the saddle.
Luke sagged there, jaw set, hands white-knuckled on the horn, glaring like he hated the indignity.
His old nightshirt clung to a thin, wasting body like a shroud.
Nash briefly considered tossing a blanket over the man’s shoulders, but what did it matter? They were all soaked to the skin from the relentless storm. Moving carefully, he climbed into the saddle behind Luke.
Violet and Tucker climbed onto the wagon seat. The other boys edged themselves into the back of the wagon, tucked among what belongings they’d managed to save.
Nash glanced toward the creek. Last night, it had surged in a lackadaisical tide.
Now, it had become a dark ribbon, like a churning serpent of brown, clawing at its banks.
The current dragged branches and fence posts in its grip, and Nash spotted the swollen body of an animal—no telling what it had been.
Before long, the water would escape completely and overtake the cabin in an unholy flood.
“Let’s move!” Nash shouted.
Tucker snapped the reins, the plow team leaned into their harness, and the wagon lurched forward. Mud sucked at the wheels, making for slow going. Cows bellowed in alarm as the squawking chickens sent up an unearthly chatter.
Nash followed along behind, one hand on Brandy’s reins, the other around Luke’s waist to keep him from slipping off.
“Where we going, Marshal?” Tucker asked.
Until then, Nash’s only idea had been to get the family away from the flooding creek to higher ground. Now, he realized they needed more than that. They needed shelter and warmth.
“Is there a town nearabout?”
Violet turned to him, her sodden gray hair streaming down her gaunt cheeks. At some point, she’d grabbed up an old woolen coat and shrugged into it. “Town’s too far, but we got neighbors. Closest are the Callahans. Their house is on higher ground, not far down the road.”
Nash nodded. “You heard your ma,” he told Tucker. “I’ll follow you.”
Luke let out a pained groan, his head lolling.
“Hang on, Pa!” Pete called over the storm, his thin voice trembling. “We’re almost there now.”
Jubal, white-faced and shivering, nodded hard.
“Don’t you quit on us, Pa. We need you.” Their small voices carried through the rain with such fierce pleading that Nash felt something tighten in his chest. Whatever kind of man Luke Bishop had been before the accident, he’d taught his boys lessons that still held fast now: grit, loyalty, and a stubborn kind of love that wouldn’t let go.
Ahead of Brandy, the wagon wheels sank deep in a stretch of churned mud, and the plow horses strained till their flanks quivered.
Without hesitation, Tucker handed the reins to his mother, jumped down from the seat, and splashed forward through the mire. “Come on now,” he urged the team, catching one bridle and tugging at their heads while shouldering the stuck wheel.
“Can you get it, Tucker?” Nash called. “I don’t think I can get down to help.”
“You hang on to Pa,” Tucker said through gritted teeth. “I’ll be all right. Ma—see if you can take the reins!”
Nash saw the boy’s jaw set against fear and cold. Soaked to the skin and up to his knees in mud, Tucker never once complained. He only kept on, helping the horses, steadying the wagon, doing a man’s work with a boy’s narrow shoulders.
Watching him, hearing Pete and Jubal call encouragement to their father, Nash felt a deep respect settle in him. Luke might be laid low, but the values he’d instilled still shone, clear as day, in his sons.
Despite the cold rain stinging his face and the fear in his gut, Nash felt a small flame of hope in his chest.