The Outlaw Takes a Bride Read Online Free

if it happened yesterday, there’d be…” He made a face. “You know how it is when we find a dead cow.”
    “Yeah.” Johnny preferred not to think about the aftereffects of death—the bugs, the bloating, the stench…“We’d best get him underground as quick as we can.”
    “All right.” Cam took the spade from the wall. “Do you want to get him ready, or you want me to do it?”
    “I will,” Johnny said. As hard as it would be, he wanted to spend these last few minutes with Mark and examine his wounds again.
    “I’ll find a likely spot to dig, then. Water the horses first, eh?” Cam shouldered the spade and went out.
    Johnny’s steps dragged as he went out into the brilliant sunshine. The cow lowed piteously. He almost ignored her, but after taking buckets of water to Reckless and Cam’s pinto, he went to the barn for a milk bucket and to see if Mark had a stool. Mark would wait another twenty minutes, but this cow needed relief. Besides, the milk would come in handy.
    He let the motions of routine take over, numbing the jagged pain that tore at him. As he sat rhythmically milking away, leaning back a little so he didn’t contact the cow’s hot side, sweat trickled down his back and off his face. He laughed out loud. Grief would hit him soon. It was sure to. But this was too absurd. His brother lay dead a few yards away, and here he was milking a stupid cow.
    As though she heard his thoughts, the cow flicked him in the face with her tail, the coarse hairs flogging him like tiny whiplashes.
    “Is that all the thanks I get?” His thoughts turned back to his brother. If he’d been shot today, it must have been early morning, or else Mark would have milked the cow. So, around sunup. That was probably as close as they could come to pinpointing the time.
    Johnny didn’t bother to strip the cow dry. When the bucket was two-thirds full, he stood and set it away from the reach of her feet. He untied her and gave her flank a swat. “Go on now.”
    She eyed him balefully for a moment then ambled away. Johnny picked up the pail and walked to the house. Inside the doorway, he set the bucket down and went to Mark’s side.
    Drying blood soaked the front of Mark’s shirt. The only comfort to Johnny was that it probably happened quick. He doubted his brother had lain there long, knowing he was dying. Nothing about the body or the floor around it suggested he had moved at all after he was shot.
    Johnny walked slowly around the cabin. The kitchen area was in disarray, with a few supplies strewn about. Whoever killed Mark must have helped himself to the foodstuffs. They didn’t take everything, though. A barrel half full of flour stood open below a worktable, and though the shelves had some empty spaces, several jars of preserves sat there intact, waiting for a hungry man to open them. A little more snooping revealed cornmeal, salt, and a small amount of dried peas.
    Johnny walked over to the bunk built onto one wall. The covers were neatly spread, and his heart spasmed as he recognized an old patchwork quilt their mother had stitched. She had promised Johnny one, but it wasn’t half finished when she died, so he never got his quilt.
    He reached to pull it off the bunk and hesitated. Should he bury Mark in it? He hadn’t seen any lumber lying around, from which he could make a coffin. But it seemed wrong to bury Mama’s quilt. Maybe there was another blanket he could use.
    A few garments hung from nails in the wall, and Johnny examined them. The white cotton shirt must be Mark’s Sunday best. He could put that on him and remove the bloody chambray one. If he washed the blood off, Mark would look almost natural.
    He got a basin of water and a rag and steeled himself to remove Mark’s bloody shirt. He unbuttoned it and laid back the front pieces of the shirt. Two bullet holes. They had shot Mark twice in the chest. Johnny tried not to think too closely about that as he dabbed the blood away, but he couldn’t