Aftermath

Zack shivered as he was handed a gold eagle. The cold blue eyes staring out of the haggard unshaven face in front of him were hard and forbidding and Zack was grateful for two things. The first was that it was a bright sunny day and this dark man with the menacing voice wasn’t confronting him in the shadows of a dim alley. The second was that he knew the answer to the question he’d just been asked and even though he’d normally be reluctant to give out the information, Zack was more scared of not giving the stranger what he wanted.

“He… he’s in his office, sir. It… it’s over the saloon, j… just down the street. Can’t miss it, sir.”

Zack clutched the coin tightly, more money than he’d usually see in over a month as the stranger headed in the indicated direction without another word. He shuddered, glad for once he was just a lowly stablehand and beneath almost everyone’s notice, not rich and powerful enough to make enemies like Ben Coulter obviously had.

*

Ben Coulter stretched back and the chair creaked under his weight as he locked the pile of bills in a desk drawer. The saloon was turning a tidy profit and the local businesses were paying their ‘insurance’ fees on time. Not as much as he took in back in Coryville, but things were looking up again. He pulled the ledger closer and began to add up the numbers.

He heard the door open and heavy footsteps enter the room. “I’m busy,” he said sharply, not looking up, “come back later.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Coulter.” The grim tone made him look up and the colour drained out of his face when his eyes encountered the visage looming over him.

“Barkley,” he whispered in disbelief.

“Surprised to see me, Coulter?” Jarrod Barkley perched himself on the edge of the desk and picked up a dagger-like letter opener. He idly turned it over in his hand.

“You’re supposed to be…”

“Dead?” Jarrod finished for him and slammed the letter opener to stand embedded in the wood of the desk. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

The edge in the deep voice and impenetrable stare made Coulter’s belly clench in fear. Parker was supposed to have killed the man and Coulter never even considered that he would fail. Jarrod Barkley was a soft, do-gooder lawyer, for heaven’s sakes! The former judge’s mouth grew dry as Jarrod leaned forward, pulled the letter opener out of the desk and slowly drew it along the side of Coulter’s face.

“Well, it didn’t work. Your hired thug is dead.” The lawyer’s voice grew softer, but no less ominous. “And now, it’s up to me to make sure you don’t cause that sort of thing to happen to anyone else.”

Coulter couldn’t breathe, paralyzed by the sharp implement and the threat in the grim-faced man’s tone. I’m Ben Coulter, he wanted to yell, I’m in charge of this town and you’re nothing! Less than nothing! But fear coursed through him as the cold metal slid down to rest against the side of his neck and when he felt a wet warmth soak the front of his pants, Ben Coulter surrendered the last of his dignity.

“Don’t kill me,” he begged shamelessly, closing his eyes, “I’ll give you whatever you want, just name it. There’s money in my desk…”

The letter opener clattered to the desk and Coulter slowly opened his eyes. The sinister cast on Jarrod’s face had been replaced with one of complete disgust. “Just stay away from my family, Coulter,” he warned, “if I hear you’ve made one false move, I’ll be back. Count on it.”

Rising to his feet, Jarrod turned his back and strode to the door. Without those piercing blue eyes in front of him, Coulter quickly shook off his fear and grabbed the derringer out of the top drawer of his desk with the intent of shooting the lawyer in the back. Jarrod whirled at the sound of the drawer opening and pulled the gun from his pants. Coulter fell back as the shot echoed through the room, a surprised expression in his unseeing eyes as the red stain of his lifeblood spread across the front of his shirt.


Jarrod lowered the gun. When he’d seen the craven fear that caused the big man to wet himself, he almost laughed. Coulter had no idea what real fear was as he’d begged for his life and Jarrod found he couldn’t go through with killing him. He might be a killer, but he wasn’t a murderer; he couldn’t slit another man’s throat in cold blood no matter how despicable that man might be. But Coulter took that decision out of his hands and Jarrod felt a faint satisfaction mingled with repulsion as he gazed at the lifeless body behind the desk. He shoved the gun back through his belt and went down the stairs to the saloon. Spotting a star pinned to a well-worn leather vest, he walked up to the wearer.

“Coulter’s dead,” he said shortly, the crowd in the room making his skin crawl. “I shot him. Self defence.”

The sheriff eyed him closely. Jarrod stood his ground and fought off the urge to run. “Yep, guess it was.” The lawman turned back to his drink. “Much obliged.”

Jarrod slowly surveyed the room and none of the patrons were willing to meet his gaze. It seemed as though Ben Coulter was no more loved in Plymouth than he had been in Coryville. Squaring his shoulders, Jarrod could feel everyone turn to stare as he left the building and managed to keep his steps slow and even until he reached his horse. He swung into the saddle and urged the gelding into a slow lope until he was well out of town.

Only then did Jarrod slide off his horse, unable to keep away the panic any longer. He’d been able to manage it by travelling until he was practically falling out of the saddle, sleeping only until the nightmares woke him before setting off again. When he got to Plymouth, he’d focused solely on his goal of getting to Coulter and was able to ignore the press of people with his whole being fixed on stopping the despot. But now that it was done, the wall Jarrod built around the terror that lurked in the back of his mind crumbled.

He sank to his knees with his body shaking. He couldn’t stop it no matter how hard he tried; how could he stop something he didn’t even understand? His tormentors were dead, there was no way Parker or Coulter could threaten him, his family, or anyone else ever again. There was no reason for the crippling panic that reached out its icy hand and squeezed his chest to make him gasp for breath. His body curled up into a ball and he wasn’t even aware of the pain when his fingernails dug into the flesh of his arm and drew blood. He huddled on the cold ground, reduced to a near stupor by the overwhelming emotions that threatened to crush him.

That was, until he felt the grip on his shoulder. With his only thought being to prevent further assault, Jarrod surged to his feet and his right fist connected with solid bone when he lashed out mindlessly. The wave of agony that lanced up his arm sent him stumbling to the ground and he scooted backwards in terror until the trunk of a tree stopped him. He then remembered the gun and grabbed it with his left hand, shakily holding it in front of him.

“Don’t come any closer,” he rasped, “or I’ll kill you, I swear.”

“Jarrod?” The voice seemed familiar, but Jarrod hung on to the pistol grimly. “Jarrod, it’s me, Nick. Don’t shoot, okay?”

“N-Nick?” Jarrod whispered hesitantly and slowly lowered the gun. “Is it… is it really you?”

“Yeah, Pappy, it’s me.”

Jarrod blinked and the dark shape in front of him slowly resolved itself into the visage of his younger brother, hazel eyes full of concern. His hand shook as he dropped the gun and he felt himself enfolded into the strength of Nick’s embrace. “Oh, god, Nick,” Jarrod cried and he sobbed unashamedly into his brother’s shoulder.

“Come on, big brother,” Nick encouraged softly, “you’re hurt. Plymouth’s not far; let’s get you up and get you to a doctor.”

Violently pushing away, Jarrod shook his head. “NO!” he yelled vehemently.

“But, Jarrod…”

“No, Nick,” Jarrod said, quieter this time but no less firm. “I’m not going back there and there’s no way you can make me.”

“You’ve already been there?” Nick asked. “Did you find Champ?”

Jarrod looked up, slightly puzzled. “Champ?”

Nick nodded. “Yeah, you know, the horse you were riding when…” He took a deep breath. “…when you disappeared. Fred got word he was spotted in Plymouth. That’s how I’m here.”

“Didn’t see him, Nick,” Jarrod responded curtly.

“What happened, Jarrod?” Nick demanded as he reached out to grab Jarrod’s arm. Jarrod flinched and pulled out of his grasp.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jarrod pulled himself to his feet and walked a few shaky steps away.

“Jarrod…”

“I said, I don’t want to talk about it!”

Nick took a step back at the fury on Jarrod’s face. “Well,” he said, trying to diffuse the situation, “I still reckon we should head to town and see about the horse. And I still think you need a doctor.”

“I’m fine, Nick!” Jarrod snapped, then his expression softened as he saw the worry and concern on his brother’s face. “I just need to go home,” he said quietly. “Go to town and see if Champ’s there, I’ll stay here and get camp set up. It’ll likely be dark by the time you return.” He reached out and squeezed Nick’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine. The coffee’ll be ready when you get back.”

“You sure?”

Jarrod nodded and Nick readjusted his hat before reluctantly gathering the reins of his nearby horse and swinging into the saddle.

“I won’t be long.”

Jarrod watched Nick as he rode towards town, took a deep breath and started to gather wood for a fire.

*

Nick rode back to where he’d left Jarrod, appaloosa in tow. Fred’s report had been right, Champ was the horse spotted in Plymouth and Nick had no problem establishing ownership of the big gelding. Especially since the man who claimed to own him was dead, shot by a stranger whose description fit his brother so well.

Ben Coulter. He’d reckoned that thieving snake would want revenge on the Barkleys for what happened in Coryville, but after several months passed, Nick figured they didn’t have anything to worry about. He didn’t have all the facts yet, but Nick was guessing Coulter hired the thug who’d beat and almost killed Jarrod and Jarrod decided to go after him. The tall rancher shook his head. At least Coulter had been found with a pistol beside him, removing the possibility that Jarrod shot the man in cold blood. Not something he would ever have said his big brother was capable of, but seeing the look in Jarrod’s eyes when he’d found him, Nick wasn’t so sure anymore.

Nick shuddered. Coming upon his brother like that, curled up and shaking on the ground, unnerved Nick more than he cared to admit. He remembered Dr. Carter’s description of Jarrod’s injuries and wished he would’ve tried harder to talk Jarrod into seeing the doctor in Plymouth. At least their mother would be able to make him see Dr. Merar when they got home. It was less than fifty miles to Stockton; if they pushed it with the three horses, they could be home by late tomorrow.

Ahead, he could see the faint flicker of a fire in the evening gloom. Reaching Jarrod’s bay, Nick dismounted and tethered Coco and Champ beside him, removed Coco’s tack and gave him a brisk rubdown. He tucked his bedroll under his arm, hoisted the saddle and saddlebags onto his shoulder and made his way to the fire where Jarrod was sitting. A dry stick cracked loudly under his foot. In a flash, Jarrod was on his feet, pulling his gun in an awkward left-hand draw. Nick could see him shaking and stopped.

“It’s just me, Jarrod,” he called out and tried to sound casual. “Your coffee’s good, but it ain’t good enough to have to be defended at gunpoint.” He walked closer to put down the saddle and bedroll and was relieved when he saw Jarrod tuck the gun back into his belt.

“Sorry, Nick.”

Nick shrugged. “Don’t worry about it,” he replied and made a note not to startle his brother in the near future as he grabbed his cup out of his saddlebag. He poured himself some coffee from the pot that rested at the edge of the fire and reached back into the bag to pull out a bottle of amber whiskey. Moving to sit beside Jarrod, he held it out. “You look like you could use this.”

Jarrod silently took the proffered bottle and added a generous amount to his cup. He took a large swallow and topped it up before handing the whiskey back to Nick. “Thanks.”

The two brothers slowly sipped their coffee in silence. It was all Nick could do not to grab Jarrod by the shoulders, shake him and demand to know what happened. But he saw the tension in the lawyer’s frame and knew that wasn’t a smart idea, so he waited until he finally had to say something.

“How’s the hand?” he asked nonchalantly as he took another drink.

Jarrod looked at him sharply and didn’t answer right away. “What do you know about it?” he said finally.

“The doc back in Knight’s Ferry told me a little,” Nick said, “and couldn’t help noticing that left-handed draw you tried. How bad is it?”

“Bad enough,” Jarrod admitted slowly. He wouldn’t meet Nick’s eyes.

“What happened?”

“What did the doc tell you?”

Nick sighed. Getting information out of his reserved older brother was a challenge at the best of times and he knew Jarrod wasn’t going to give anything up easily. “That you were likely restrained when that sonuvabitch whipped you, tore up your hand pretty bad.” He watched as Jarrod tried to make a fist and winced at the pain on the other man’s face.

“I guess hitting your hard head didn’t help it any,” Jarrod told him with a ghost of a smile. “I was supposed to take it easy.”

“And instead you come haring off up here,” Nick accused, “rather than taking care of yourself. What was so all-fired important, anyway?” He’d guessed about Coulter, but he wanted to hear it from Jarrod.

Jarrod sighed. “I suppose you heard about Ben Coulter from the sheriff when you went into town.” At Nick’s nod, he continued. “It seems he was still carrying around a grudge for what happened. He hired someone to grab me and…” Jarrod’s voice faltered and he took another sip of whiskey-laced coffee, “…torture me before he killed me. I couldn’t give him the chance to come after anyone else in the family.”

“You kill both of them?”

Jarrod nodded reluctantly and Nick reached out to grab his shoulder. He couldn’t miss Jarrod’s flinch when he touched him. “Sorry,” he said, removing his hand, “Doc said how you were when he saw you. Reckon your back’s still pretty sore.”

“A little.” Jarrod swallowed the rest of his coffee and put down the cup. “We should get some sleep. If we start early enough, we might make it home before dark tomorrow.”

Nick realized he wasn’t going to get anything more out of Jarrod and nodded. He unrolled his blankets and stretched out, resting his head on his saddle, and it wasn’t long before he fell asleep.

*

Jarrod sat with his knees drawn up tightly to his chest and listened to his brother’s snores. He was tempted to grab the bottle of whiskey Nick had returned to his saddlebag, but then he might actually fall asleep and he couldn’t let that happen. The nightmares were lurking not far off and even though he might snatch a little sleep before they came, he didn’t want Nick to hear. Heaven forbid anyone found out what happened to him in that barn near Knight’s Ferry. It was bad enough that Nick knew about his back and his hand, but to have him learn about… Jarrod shuddered and closed his eyes tightly. He almost drowned in the shame that threatened to take over as he tried to push back the horrific images. Things would be better once he got home, he told himself. Safe with those who loved him, he’d be able to rest and heal. Jarrod took a deep breath and waited for the first glimmer of light to show on the horizon.