The Devil You Know Read online

  “I’ve been called that before, so I’ve learned not to take offense, but I have to tell you that you’re wrong. I don’t cheat. Part of learning your game is figuring how I can best you without using tricks like dealing from the bottom or holding back a card or playing with a marked deck. You cheated indiscriminately, taking money from everyone. In my eyes, at least, I played a much fairer game, taking most of my winnings from you.”

  Israel tracked Eli’s every movement from the rise and fall of his breathing to the subtle contraction of his fingers on the arms of the rocker.

  “You remember me telling you that, don’t you? Or some version of it. I told you all of it when you demanded your money back, and I think you knew then that I was speaking the truth. You simply didn’t want to hear that I’d won fairly, or maybe you couldn’t hear it. I don’t think I mistook your desperation to have your losses returned.”

  Malcolm was looking at his son now. “How much did you lose, Eli?”

  “Nothing,” said Eli.

  Israel chuckled flatly. “He’s not lying, Mr. Barber. I guess since he stole it all back from me, he didn’t lose a penny.”

  “But he says you cheated. He was in the right.”

  “See? That is where we have a difference of opinion.”

  Malcolm asked Israel, “How much did you win?”

  “I can’t give you a precise figure. I never really had a chance to count it, but it filled a bag about so big. Almost all of it came from your son.” He caught the faint narrowing of Eli’s eyes and adjusted the spread of his hands to make the bag bigger.

  Malcolm clutched his glass but spoke without inflection. “You are mistaken, Mr. McKenna. Eli has never had that kind of money to lose.”

  Happy slapped his knee. “That’s exactly the answer I expected from you, Mal. Can’t you disappoint me just once?”

  “Happy,” Willa said gently. “Allow me, please.” When her father offered his reluctant nod, she continued. “No one truly thought you’d say anything else, Mal. How can you when we all know the money Eli was carrying was really yours? It’s hard to believe that he didn’t accept a check for whatever business he transacted for you in Saint Louis, but that’s hubris for you. I’m only supposing here, you understand, but it makes sense to me that Eli would want to put all that money at your feet, so to speak, just to prove he was worthy of your trust. Does that sound about right?”

  Malcolm said nothing.

  “What about you, Eli? Sound right to you?” Her stare dropped to his twitchy fingers. “Oh, for God’s sake, Eli. Don’t go for your gun. That will not end well. We’re going to settle this real easy.”

  Eli was immediately suspicious. “How’s that?”

  “Well, as long as your father is willing to put up what you stole from Israel, and you agree to the terms, then it’ll be cards.”

  “Now why would I want to play poker with him?” asked Eli. “I already told you he’s a sharp. The game will be fixed.”

  “On behalf of my husband, it’s hard not to take offense to that, but I’m going to let it pass because I know what’s at stake for you. There will be no poker. High card draw, one draw each. If you draw high, that means your father gets to keep every penny of his that you lost to Israel, and for you it means that we won’t tell him exactly what you did to steal it back. You think about that, because there’s plenty that hasn’t been said and you know it.”

  “Maybe I want to hear it anyway,” said Malcolm.

  Happy shook his head. “No. You don’t. It’s a sorry story.”

  Malcolm asked Willa, “Why should I put up my money? My son says he took back what he was cheated out of. He should have called your husband out.”

  “We could debate that until spring and still not have a clear winner, but if you don’t put up the money and sign a paper that says you did, then we’re going to the sheriff and Eli’s going to jail. I’m not promising that it won’t happen regardless, but it’s a guarantee if you don’t stay and play.”

  Malcolm snorted. He stood and walked over to the fireplace. For a few moments, he toyed with the iron poker and was still holding it when he turned around. “Listen to me, Wilhelmina. Brandywine is not going to put my son in jail for stealing. Your husband’s word carries no weight around here, and you weren’t with him on that train or I’d have heard about it.”

  “Put up the money,” Eli said suddenly. “I’ll play.”

  “You’re still real easy with someone else’s money, son, just like you were on that train. I don’t like the fact that you had a card sharp at your table, but I like it even less that you played with my money. I’ll put up the money, Eli, but I will be drawing the card, not you.”

  Eli’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “Willa mentioned hubris,” he said tautly. “I guess everyone here sees how deeply it’s rooted in the Barber tree.”

  Willa covered her mouth with her hand when Malcolm took a step toward Eli as if he meant to strike him with the poker. She did not know what stopped him where he stood or what stayed his hand, but she was grateful for it until she caught sight of the murderous look in Eli’s eyes. That was when comprehension took her breath away. She was staring at a man who could surely kill his father.

  Malcolm said, “Where do we do this? Here?”

  “Yes.” Willa lifted the lid on the piano bench and produced a document and a pen. “I prepared this in anticipation that we would come to an agreement. It only requires that Eli’s name be changed to yours as the person who will draw the card, and then both of you will sign it.”

  Israel took the paper and pen from her and carried them to Malcolm. He waited without speaking as Malcolm read the agreement and then asked for the pen. Laying the document on the mantelpiece, he struck out Eli’s name, added his, and then signed it. Israel took it to Eli, gave him the same courtesy of time, and when it was done, he turned it over to Happy for safekeeping.

  Happy nodded, satisfied, and stood. “I’ll get the cards.”

  “I’ll want to look them over,” Malcolm said.

  “Fine by me,” Happy called back, heading into the hall. “Brand-new deck. Never been opened. Gift from my daughter when she was up Lansing way.” He continued to talk but his voice was less clear as he got farther away and then disappeared entirely after the back door opened and closed.

  “Where the hell is he going?” asked Malcolm.

  Israel shrugged. “The cards must be in the bunkhouse.”

  Malcolm swore under his breath, more in disbelief than frustration. “You had a document all prepared in spite of the fact that you say you weren’t expecting us today, but you didn’t think to keep the cards here? Seems a bit shortsighted of you.” He thought about it a moment, and before Willa responded, he was chuckling. “Right. You put Happy in charge of making sure the cards were around.”

  “Why do you think that’s funny, Father?” asked Eli. “You’ve been laughing at Happy Pancake for years without any good reason that I could ever figure. He bested you at cards once, and you still laugh at him as if he’s no account. He bested you, yet you always puff up like you got the better of him.” He turned sharply to Willa. “And you, arranging all this so you could rub my nose in it in front of him.” He jerked his head sideways to indicate Malcolm. “You didn’t have to bring him. We could have come to terms without him.”

  Willa remained calm; she spoke quietly. Eli’s agitation was palpable and it scraped against her composure like sandpaper. “You were not in a position to play for money once we realized it was always your father’s, and frankly, we didn’t know the extent of Malcolm’s involvement in what happened afterward.”

  Eli sharpened his look on Israel. “You know damn well he wasn’t there.”

  Israel was tempted to say that he was only one hundred percent sure of it now that Eli had given it away. “True, but that doesn’t mean you were not acting at his direction.” />
  Eli came halfway out of his chair at that. “What? You don’t believe I can think for myself?”

  “Shut up, Eli,” said Malcolm. “And sit back down. Even I am wondering if you can think.”

  Those words did not push Eli back. They brought him to his feet, and rather than turning his malevolent stare on his father, he impaled Willa with it. “This is your fault. You want to shame me. You have for years, always with your high and mighty airs, looking down on me, looking down, in fact, on every man who asked after you. I don’t know what I did to deserve your enmity, but I can return the shame you visited on me tenfold, Willa.”

  Willa realized she was no longer in control of any part of these proceedings and that she wouldn’t be as long as Eli was talking out of his head.

  “You probably need to stop talking now,” said Israel. “Seems as if it would be good for everyone if you did.”

  But Eli was not finished. “You’ll want to hear what I have to say since you took on this family when you wedded and bedded Willa.”

  “Oh, I know I don’t want to hear it,” said Israel. He took a half step forward, not to menace Eli, but to protectively shelter Willa with his shoulder.

  “Eli,” said Malcolm. He tapped the poker against the floor. “Stop.”

  Eli shook his head. “You’ll want to hear this, too. You really will.” He raised his hands helplessly as he turned back to Willa. “Not every hour that I spent in Saint Louis was devoted to Big Bar business. I had time to look into something that has always tickled my curiosity. Don’t bother pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. That’s beneath you. Let me tell you right off that the doors of the Margaret Lowe School are still open, and I guess you know firsthand what kind of schooling goes on there since it was where your parents boarded you. From what I could see, there is still a great need for their charity.” He shook his head in a parody of pity. “So many girls, and so many of them hardly more than children themselves. It broke my heart, but then I saw the necessity of a place like that. It struck me as a kind of sanctuary for young women who got themselves in trouble. At the very least, it removed them from their own society for a while.”

  Willa’s stomach curdled and she tasted acid at the back of her throat. Her fingers curled surreptitiously in the sleeve of Israel’s shirt. She thought she might throw up.

  “That’s enough, Eli,” said Israel.

  Willa tugged on his sleeve and shook her head. “Please, Eli, you have no idea where this is going.”

  “Don’t I? Still believe I can’t think a thing through? It’s like this, Willa. I know I never bedded you. Christ, we hardly knew how to kiss.” Without looking at his father, he said, “You hear that, Malcolm? I never bedded her.”

  “You told me—”

  Eli snarled at him. “You beat that confession out of me. I never touched her like that. Never. Tell him, Willa. Tell him!”

  Israel answered for her. “It’s true. She told me.”

  “But did she tell you the rest?” Eli asked. “When you realized your bride was no virgin, did she tell you the rest? Did she tell you how her daddy poked her, put his baby inside her, and then sent her away to a home for unwed mothers just like it was a school for fine ladies. Willa had no one sniffing after her skirts back then. It could only have been Happy or one of his ranch hands who stuck her, and my money’s on her father.”

  Willa moaned. It was a pitiful, keening cry of grief for that thing that was dying inside her. She wondered if it were her soul. Her knees buckled. Israel caught her before she dropped to the floor and gently lowered her to the piano bench. He put his hand on her shoulder and held her steady.

  Malcolm stared at Willa. His mouth hung open as he sucked in a breath. He shook his head as though to clear it, and then he took a single step toward her. “Is he right about the child? Is Annalea mine?”

  Eli’s head snapped up and then twisted around. “What?”

  But Malcolm was paying no attention to his son. “Is it true, Wilhelmina? Is Annalea my daughter?”

  Willa didn’t speak, didn’t say the words that she wanted him to hear, namely that Annalea would never be his daughter. Her silence, though, was not predicated on the fact that she couldn’t find her voice. It was because Eli drew his gun and fired at Malcolm, and the sound of it was deafening.

  She would have jumped to her feet then, but Israel was still holding her down with one hand and drawing on Eli with the other. Malcolm was on his knees, blood blossoming high on his chest, wounded but not, it seemed, gravely, while Eli stood with his arm extended, finger on the trigger, and every grim line on his face an indication that he meant to rectify that.

  Malcolm put out his hands as though he could ward off the bullet. He had no experience appealing to his son, and his attempt to do so now came to nothing. Eli’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  Israel shot him.

  Eli staggered backward and his shot went over Malcolm’s head. He fired again and this bullet lodged in the ceiling. Israel dropped him where he stood.

  Willa had no time to make sense of the tableau in front of her. Eli was sprawled on his back on the floor, blood pooling under his thigh and seeping through his jacket at the shoulder. Was he dead? And then there was Malcolm, still on his knees, clutching his chest and howling, although it was impossible for her to determine what part of his wail was provoked by physical pain and what part was emotional anguish. Finally, there was Israel standing at her side, one hand holstering the Colt, the other still on her shoulder, though whether he was steadying her or himself was no longer clear.

  The commotion at the back door effectively closed her mind to every other thing. She heard Happy coming at a run, throwing down curses like they were lighted sticks of dynamite. Zach followed, his heavy tread recognizable for its staccato step. Behind him were two more people whose footfalls were unfamiliar, but one of them spoke, and Willa could have sworn it was a woman’s voice that she heard.

  Happy barreled into the front room and stopped short of banging into the sofa. Zach held his ground better and moved in far enough to make room for the pair behind him. That couple halted in the archway and stood side by side, taking in the same scene that Willa had moments earlier.

  Calico had no difficulty identifying her brother-in-law. The similarity in the brothers’ features was remarkable, and only Israel’s dark hair immediately distinguished him from Quill. “Is any of this your work?” she asked just as if she had known him for years.

  And Israel, with no indication that he was at all surprised to see them, nodded and pointed to Eli.

  Calico gently nudged her husband with an elbow. “Damn, Quill. I thought you said your brother couldn’t shoot.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Eli Barber did not die. His father did.

  When Willa realized there was a chance to save them, she sent Zach for the doctor while she and Israel worked together to stop Eli’s bleeding. Happy gathered bandages, tweezers, needles, and thread, and every other item he thought they would need, including the whiskey. The bullet in Eli’s thigh had missed the artery and passed through the meat of his leg. The shoulder wound was initially more concerning, but when they were able to examine it closely, they located the bullet and Israel was able to extract it. Eli’s bleeding was profuse but not, as it turned out, deadly. No one present thought that Eli would be grateful for it.

  Calico and Quill worked feverishly over Malcolm. While Eli’s wounds were not catastrophic, the same was not true of his father. Although it was not immediately apparent, Malcolm was dying even as he was in the throes of pain for himself and his son. The angle of the bullet’s entry put it on a course grazing Malcolm’s shoulder and burying itself beside his heart. His cries stopped when one of his lungs collapsed. His heart kept pumping blood into his chest cavity, and the bruise appearing under his skin was a warning of inevitable death.

  Th
ey made him as comfortable as possible and then got out of his way so he would have a clear line of sight to his son lying just beyond an arm’s length reach. It was Calico, standing off to the side, who had the clearest view of Malcolm in his final moments, and she would tell Quill later that it was not the vision of Eli that Malcolm carried to his grave. It was the image of Willa.

  Israel and Quill wrapped Malcolm’s body in a sheet and carried him outside at Happy’s request. Happy fired his shotgun in the air twice and hollered for Buster Rawlins, who he figured was somewhere around, waiting for Malcolm’s direction. Quill was not so sure there would be a response to Happy’s overture, but then someone appeared out of a cluster of pines a hundred yards beyond the barn and Quill became a believer.

  “It’s Malcolm,” Happy told Buster, pointing to the shrouded corpse. “His horse is in the barn. You can get it, and one of us will help you with the body. Take him home.”

  “What about Eli?”

  “In the house. We sent for the doc. We’ll get him to the bunkhouse later, and he can stay there until he’s fit enough to move. Just so you know, there’s probably no chance of him going back to Big Bar. His daddy here, well, that’s Eli’s doing.”

  Buster nodded, regret etched deeply in his broad features.

  Happy set his eyes on the rifle in Buster’s scabbard. “Malcolm order you to snipe at Willa’s husband? That’d be like him, but it doesn’t mean I think it would be like you. So . . . would you have done it, Buster? Would you have made my little girl a widow?”

  “Guess we’ll never have to find out,” said Buster. “I’ll get Mr. Barber’s horse now.”

  * * *

  Inside the house, both women startled at the twin shotgun blasts. Calico was halfway to her feet to investigate the source when Willa shook her head and told her not to bother.

  “That’s Happy.” A moment later they heard him shouting for Buster. Willa explained to her who Buster was and why Happy thought he was around.