The Gambler's Mail Order Bride

Wives of the Wild West

By: Kaye T. Owen

Narrated by: Virtual Voice

The crimson glow of dusk had long since faded into the purple-black embrace of night when Tommy finally staggered up the dirt path toward the weathered cottage. The last sliver of sunlight disappeared behind the ragged peaks of the western mountains just as his boot scuffed against the porch step.

Vanessa had been pacing near the window for hours, her hands twisting the worn fabric of her apron into knots. The moment she caught sight of her husband’s silhouette in the moonlight, her breath caught in her throat. Even from twenty paces away, she could see something was terribly wrong.

Tommy moved like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His broad frame, usually so proud and upright, now hunched forward as if braced against an invisible storm. His shirt hung in tattered strips from his arms, the fabric shredded as if by claws or thorns. Dark stains spread across his left side where blood had soaked into the roughspun cotton and dried stiff.

But it was his face that made Vanessa’s heart stutter, deep scratches raked across his sun-weathered cheeks, his lips cracked and dry, his eyes hollow with something beyond exhaustion. His normally thick, dark hair lay matted against his scalp, damp with sweat and something darker that glistened in the lantern light when he finally stepped onto the porch.

“Sweet merciful heavens.” Vanessa’s hands flew to her mouth as she took in the full horror of his condition. The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Tommy, you’re... you’re bleedin’.”

The sharp scent of iron hit her nose as she reached for him. Her fingers hovered just inches from the worst of the stains, trembling. A hundred questions crowded her tongue, what happened, who did this, where had he been, but all she managed was a choked whisper: “What... what did you...”

Tommy’s response came out flat and final, like the cocking of a revolver. “Not my blood.”

With rough, jerky movements, he unbuckled his gun belt, the leather creaking in protest. The heavy Colt Peacemaker hit the wooden planks with a thud that seemed to shake the entire porch. Dust puffed up around the weapon as it settled next to his boots.

Vanessa watched, horrified, as Tommy’s hands, usually so steady, shook violently while he worked the buckle. When he finally spoke again, his voice cracked like dry kindling. “Ichabod died on me.”

“Ichabod?” Vanessa felt the blood drain from her face. The name meant nothing to her, but the raw grief in Tommy’s tone sent ice water trickling down her spine. “Who’s Ichabod?”

Tommy’s shoulders slumped even further, if that were possible. When he turned to face her fully, moonlight caught the wet tracks cutting through the dirt on his cheeks. “My horse,” he rasped. “The best damn horse I ever had.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white beneath the grime and scratches. He looked around their small homestead with wild, unfocused eyes, as if searching for something he knew he wouldn’t find. “They shot him,” he continued, each word heavier than the last. “I got poor Ichabod killed.”

Vanessa felt her pulse quicken, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. Memories she’d fought hard to bury came rushing back, the night riders, the burning barn, her first husband’s blood soaking into the Illinois dirt. She swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat.

“Shot him?” Her voice came out thin and reedy. “They... your horse... who...” Her hands fluttered uselessly at her sides. “Who’re they?”