High Plains Passion

Prologue

PrologueGarden City, Kansas

April 1889

11:40. Sheriff Dylan Brody snapped his watch shut with a sigh. “Come on, son, it's time.”

The somber sound of his voice broke through the agitated pacing of a dark-haired youth inside the jail cell, and he glared at Brody with a look that should have melted the bars and earned his freedom.

Damned shame. He's just a kid. His life of crime will be short… but not because he made a better choice. “You know the procedure, son. Turn around. Hands out.”

The kid responded with a slew of profanity, clearly too young to understand facing death with poise or dignity.

And who says you'll do any better, old man? “Now, listen, Will,” Brody said, “there's nothing left to be done. You had your chance. This is what you chose. Are you going to fight me?”

“No,” Will snarled. “I don't have to. They will. You'll be sorry, but it'll be too late.”

And for you, it's already too late, Dylan thought, but he restrained the brutal truth. No reason to point it out now.

Will turned his back on the lawman in what looked like a gesture of defiance and stuck his hands out between the bars. Dylan swallowed hard and fastened a pair of rudimentary handcuffs around the youth's wrists. Then, he unlocked the door to the cell and led the young man out.

“Want to cover your face?” he asked.

The only response was a rank curse.

Shrugging, Dylan grasped the manacle and led Will Blalock out into the dusty street. Jeering townspeople greeted their appearance with a racket of booing, hissing and clapping. Ugly words spilled from them.

“Murderer!”

“You know how many children you left orphaned, you little prick?”

“Crime doesn't pay, son. The Good Book says…”

Unlike his friends and neighbors, Dylan felt no such vitriol. While Will was, in fact, a murderer, he'd had nothing to do with creating orphans. That shooter had escaped, while this young man hadn't. Dylan knew the crowd wouldn't care about the distinction. They wanted a scapegoat on whom to vent their fear and grief, and Will had been inexperienced enough to get caught. So he would pay for his crimes—and those of his fellow train robbers—at the end of a rope.

The weather had turned dark and cold, common in a place with such an uncertain climate, and the wind nipped them through their clothing, aggressive as the words flying from the crowd that lined the streets. Dust billowed up into tiny tornadoes, swirling dead winter grass that had not yet greened up completely and tossing it into cursing mouths, reducing their a***e to choking gasps.

Thank you, Lord, Dylan thought.

At the end of the long, straight street, the rugged gallows stood ready to exact rough justice. Will's steps faltered, and he was forced to rely on Dylan's strength to keep him moving forward.

At the foot of the scaffold, a couple approached. The man—young, handsome and wearing a grim expression in place of his habitual, white-toothed grin—held arms with a tall and rather homely woman. She regarded the robber with sad aquamarine eyes.

“What do you want, b***h?” Will snarled.

Dylan gave the handcuffs a shake. I'll tolerate his a***e towards me, but Kristina doesn't deserve it.

She took no offense. Instead, tears streamed down her heavily freckled cheeks. She sniffled, her short, upturned nose wrinkling. “I had to tell you…” she sobbed. “To tell you…” Again, her voice broke, preventing speech.

“What?” Will demanded.

“Settle down, son,” Dylan suggested. “It's her brother you killed. She deserves to speak her piece.”

“I know that,” the boy snarled. “Let me tell you this right now… Heitschmidt deserved what he got.”

Kristina wept openly now. “I know that. I… had to tell you I forgive you. Go in peace.”

Will stared. “That's it?”

Kristina is the best of us, Dylan thought. What class.

She nodded, words having finally failed.

“Would you like to say a prayer?” her husband suggested, hope flaring in his eyes.

Dylan shook his head. He wouldn't talk to you the last time you came to see him, Pastor, or the time before that. While he understood why Cody couldn't give up, he knew the effort would come to nothing.

“Pardon me, preacher man,” Will replied in a sarcastic drawl, “but as it's your fault I'm here, I don't want no comforting from you.”

Cody bowed his head.

Fool boy. It's your fault you're here. Cody may have tied you up, but if you hadn't been robbing that train, this wouldn't be happening. “Okay, folks,” Dylan told Cody and Kristina, “you two move on now. You did your best.”

“May God have mercy on your soul,” Cody said in his soft Texas accent. “Repentance is in the heart. Remember, Jesus forgave the thief on the cross.”

Will's response was another foul curse.

Cody blanched and fell back, allowing the grim procession to proceed.

It seemed the encounter with the pastor had galvanized Will's resolve. He mounted the scaffold under his own power, strode forcefully to the trapdoor and drew himself to his full height, leveling a defiant glare at the hissing, hollering crowd.

“William Blaylock,” Dylan began in a sonorous, emotionless voice, “you have been convicted of the murder of Calvin Heitschmidt by a jury of your peers and been sentenced to death. You shall now be hanged by the neck until you are dead, in accordance with the law. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Dylan glanced at Will and saw his mouth white and his eyes squinting. “Can we just get this over with?” the kid hissed.

Dylan nodded. “Any last words?”

Will slowly filled his lungs with air. He cleared his throat and spoke. “You were warned. You didn't listen. Now you're going to be sorry. This town will pay. My father will come and avenge me. Mark my words. You can take my life.” His defiant tone wavered, then he steeled himself and pressed on. “You can win this round, but you'll never win the war. Never.” He turned to Dylan. “You'll be first, Sheriff. You and the preacher man.”

Dylan pressed his lips together, lowered a black sack over Will's head and drew in a deep breath. He scanned the gathered townsfolk until he locked his gaze with a pair of soulful, dark-brown eyes. While every other person stared at the condemned, Lydia's tear-streaked face remained fixed on Dylan's. He lowered his chin, acknowledging her with a nod and then turned to affix the rope around Will's neck, carefully arranging the knot behind the condemned man's ear.

“Vaya con Dios,” he murmured as he stepped back off the trapdoor. Bringing his foot down solidly on the boards, he signaled to the unseen executioner.

For a breathless moment, the tableau of a man, a noose, and a crowd, all adrift on a windswept plain seemed to freeze, imprinting itself on Dylan's memory forever. Then the floor of the scaffold fell away with a thump. The rope hissed as it lengthened and then creaked as it reached its limit. Will grunted but didn't have time to holler. His noisy exhalation ended in a nauseating crunch that told Dylan he'd once again done his job correctly. Hell of a thing to be good at, he thought.