The Edge of Nowhere

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

Nationally bestselling western authors William W. and J.A. Johnstone reunite no there’s nothing like a Christmas showdown in Texas.

Johnstone Country. Where Miracles Need Bullets.

In this bold, new Western from the bestselling Johnstones, a lonely drifter finds himself snowbound with a lovely widow, her young son—and a gang of trigger-happy thieves . . .

DON’T OPEN FIRE UNTIL CHRISTMAS

Patrick Foley is a haunted man. After losing his family in a brutal Commanche raid, he drifts from town to town seeking justice and revenge. His mission—to track down the killers—has hardened his heart against all men, good or bad. But his icy resolve begins to melt when he arrives in the small Texas town of Christmas Creek—along with a massive winter storm that traps him there with a good woman, her little boy, and some very bad men . . .

Texans call it a Blue Norther. A fast-moving onslaught of heavy sleet and snow, it brings Foley’s search to a halt, but also gives him a chance to warm up with the charming young widow who runs the general store. Her name is Lovejoy Peace. She has a friendly smile, a six-year-old son—and a terrible problem with mean-spirited cowboys stealing supplies from her store. Being a gentleman, Foley raises his gun to defend the widow and stop the thieving snakes. But the battle is far from over . . .

The storm is getting worse. The cowboy gang is snowbound, too—and they’re ready for a rematch. If Foley, the widow and her son can survive the night, it’ll be a Christmas miracle . . .
 

Release date: October 22, 2024

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

“I just reloaded this pistol with six fresh rounds.” The speaker had his hat brim pulled low on his forehead and a blue scarf over his nose. “If you move, I’ll use them all to blow you off that stage.”

A line of dark blue clouds was almost upon them. The norther promised rapidly falling temperatures and ice or snow, which was unusual for the Red River that time of the year. Five men spread out in front of the stage headed for the boomtown of Blackjack.

“Why would I move?” The driver raised both hands. “None of this belongs to me, so have at it.”

A second highwayman wearing a faded cotton scarf almost devoid of pattern reined around to the side. “Everybody get down out of there.”

Bobwhite quail called around them, gathering together in response to the changing weather as four men climbed down. Two wore suits and the others were dressed similarly to the stage robbers, in hats, trousers, and vests. Faded Scarf flicked his Colt at them. “Guns on the ground, slow.”

Only the two wearing Stetsons were armed with pistols tucked into their belts. One held a hand close to his revolver. “If I drop this, it’ll likely go off. There’s a round under the hammer.”

Red Scarf nodded and spoke in a voice made gravelly by intention. “You’re a good man. Shake them shells out, but be careful.”

The cowboy emptied the cylinder and dropped it and the loose shells on the ground as the other man did the same.

The businessmen almost shook out of their shoes. “We don’t have guns.”

One of the highwaymen, with an abnormally long neck, laughed. “What kind of men don’t go around heeled?”

The man in a derby answered. “The kind who don’t want to get shot.”

The five outlaws laughed.

Red Scarf turned his attention to the stage driver as a chilly gust of wind threatened to snatch the hat from his head. “Cashbox.”

The squatty driver reached down and picked it up from under his feet. “It ain’t heavy. I doubt there’s much in here.”

“What’s in there’ll do. Pitch it down.”

The box hit the rocky ground with a crunch. The long-necked highwayman stepped down and, seeing the wooden box was already cracked, picked it up and slammed it back down. The wood exploded and he picked up two canvas sacks that spilled out.

Handing them up to Red Scarf, he swung back into the saddle.

Red Scarf put his Colt back in its holster while the others kept the passengers covered with their revolvers. “Is there anything of value in the boot?”

The stage driver shrugged. “Beats me. You’d have to ask these guys. Luggage that belongs to them in the back there and a few boxes somebody’s shipping to Blackjack.”

“Climb down and open ’er up.”

“For luggage?”

“You don’t never know.” Red Scarf’s voice cracked with the effort of trying to make it lower. “One of you boys get what the passengers are carrying.” He waved his pistol. “Y’all turn out them pockets and dump ’em into Fat Boy’s derby.”

The driver climbed down and walked around to the back while the others kept their guns on the passengers as they dropped everything of value into the larger man’s hat. Hard currency, pocket knives, a gold watch, and a buckeye carried for good luck was all they had.

Once around back, the driver untied the canvas cover and set out valises, small grips, and two carpetbags. Becoming impatient, Red Scarf waved his pistol some more. “Empty ’em out.”

“Me?” The stage driver was incensed. “That’s against company policy. It’s illegal for me to open passengers’ luggage.”

“Legal won’t matter if you wake up dead in the morning. Shake ’em out.”

One by one, the driver opened the valises and dumped out clothes onto the sandy ground. Lighter garments lifted in the stiffening wind, spreading across the grass and scrub vegetation. As the sky darkened under thick clouds, he did the same with the remaining luggage with the same results.

Satisfied there was nothing of value hidden back there, Red Scarf returned to his men. “This is all we’re gonna get. Shoot the two lead horses and let’s go.”

Scattered raindrops thumped off their hats as Long Neck rode around and fired a shot into each of the leader’s foreheads. The horses fell where they were, legs thrashing. The two behind could do nothing but rear in their traces and fight the harness holding them in place.

The passenger who’d donated his hat to collect their loot produced a little pocket pistol and fired at the long-necked outlaw. The bullet missed by a wide margin, but the gang’s return fire was a swarm of bullets. One found the dude just below his heart, and he collapsed with a groan.

With the stage anchored until the driver and passengers could unhook the horses’ bodies and get underway, the outlaws-turned-murderers rode off to the south, yanking off their scarves and tossing them to the wind as they made their escape.

Icy rain began in earnest only minutes later as the blue norther arrived with a roar of wind, wiping out their tracks and threatening to take the lives of the driver and his passengers as the temperature plummeted.

Almost frozen into his saddle, Ridge Tisdale was cold down to the bone and questioned his intelligence for being out in the icy wind howling across the open Texas prairie. Falling snow whipped in tornadolike swirls and settled on what had already collected. Drifts formed on anything that caught the flakes. Many of those drifts resembled ocean swells, while others were sculpted into sharp, solid waves.

He’d rather have been inside a nice warm building somewhere, or at the very least sheltered by something substantial beside the life-giving heat of a mesquite campfire. Instead, he was headed for the town of Blackjack.

It was difficult to see through the falling weather that isolated his world, and he relied on Rebel to get them there. The buckskin’s hooves landed with a soft plop on the snow and the gelding had so much bottom he’d walk without complaint as long as his rider wanted.

Ridge did little but huddle inside his thick sheepskin coat and wish for a glowing stove, a cup of steaming coffee so hot it could scald a hog, and a beefsteak that was still bleeding.

A yellow-and-black silk scarf protruded from under his hat, covering his ears and disappearing inside the coat. Pulled low on his forehead, the stained felt hat stopped just above his eyebrows and collected snow. A second scarf covered his nose and lower face, making him look like a road agent in search of victims.

He reached out with a gloved hand and patted Rebel’s neck. The deerskin gloves had been one of his only splurges before leaving Austin. The old men sitting in the late summer sun that day were discussing the aches and pains of rheumatism that awoke with the coming weather. The oldest, with hair down to his shoulders and a white beard reaching nearly to his waist, held up one hand full of knobby knuckles and told the others how his hands had barely survived the winter of 1840, protected by a pair of deerskin gloves he’d gotten in a trade with an old Caddo woman.

Something in the man’s story told Ridge to hie on over to a leather shop and pick up a similar pair of gloves. He thanked the old man’s stories and his gnarly hands for the inspiration. The only part of Ridge’s body exposed to the harsh elements were his squinting eyes, and he wished for something to cover them.

The buckskin pretty much had his head, at first following a game trail until it disappeared under the snow. Once enough had fallen, there was little to mark the trace, and the only way Ridge knew they were going in the right direction was the wind blowing hard out of the north.

A week out of Gainesville, Texas, he adjusted the thick collar protecting the back of his neck and felt the horse hesitate. Ridge studied what little he could see in front of him and realized they’d intersected a wagon trace leading off in the general direction they were headed.

It wasn’t completely smooth and covered in snow. At least one wagon had been by much earlier, creating small ridges that would be drifted over in the next little while. Once he satisfied himself they’d found signs of civilization in the immediate area, Ridge squeezed the horse’s sides with his heels and Rebel started again, but without much spirit.

Riding down the road in the early winter afternoon was no different from the trail they’d previously followed. It was only the illusion of safety that changed things in Ridge’s mind. Drained of energy by the cold, he did nothing but ride heavy in the saddle and hope they’d come across some habitation so he could spend the night in relative warmth.

It really wasn’t fair to Rebel to ride that way. A man in the saddle does his part of distributing weight and moving in rhythm with the big animal standing fifteen hands high. A good seat surrounds a horse with a constant stream of information, and he senses changes in a rider’s body. Simply tightening the thighs can transfer enough sensation that the animal will walk differently, so just sitting there like a lump was probably draining Rebel’s confidence and enthusiasm.

Pulling up his coat collar, Ridge sat straighter and looked for lights of any kind. A farm would do. The offer of a barn for the two of them would be enough, and if the little frontier house was welcoming, he could look forward to a warm meal before a fireplace. He dared not hope for a bed inside, but rolling up in his bedroll in a barn would be enough.

He dozed in the saddle, only rousing when the horse’s pace changed, and that happened infrequently. When he was awake, the man he was after filled his mind. Clyde Wilkes McPeak was somewhere ahead, running from the law and destined to hang, as far as Ridge was concerned.

He intended to use the badge on his shirt as authorization to take McPeak back to Paris to face Judge Harry L. Forrester for the brutal murder of John Stevenson and his wife, settlers in Blossom Prairie, east of Paris. According to witnesses, McPeak spent the night with the Stevenson family as he passed through Northeast Texas over two weeks earlier. The next morning, after slaughtering the couple who’d given him shelter and food, he took what little they had of value, fired their cabin, and rode on, convinced the fire would destroy any evidence he’d been there.

However, he hadn’t known that another traveler spent the night in the woods only half a mile away and heard the screams of Mrs. Stevenson early that morning. When the stranger went to investigate, he saw McPeak pouring coal oil out the front door and across the porch. The witness told the sheriff in Paris that he saw McPeak light the fire and ride away, whistling.

As horrific as it was, the thought of a house fire right then made Ridge shiver with the anticipation of warm relief. Rubbing his nose, he paused when Rebel’s determined pace changed and both ears pricked forward.

“Me too.” Ridge’s soft voice surprised even him when he realized he spoke out loud to no one.

There was nothing to indicate anything different in the land around them. The wind still blew icy pellets into his eyes and the gray world around him looked the same as it had for days. Tilting his head to listen, Ridge strained for a sound that was different, but there was nothing but moaning wind and the squeak of dry snow under Rebel’s hooves.

A hundred yards later, Ridge saw drifted-over tracks of a single wagon’s wheels that angled off the trace and toward a thick stand of shin oaks barely visible in the distance. As he reached the point where the wagon left the lane, the tracks of a horse turned in also. He wondered if they led to a cabin.

He reined up, studying the almost hidden trail that meant nothing to him, but was interesting all the same. Ridge had always been one to puzzle out the tracks and paths of animals, learning from his father, who was a scout and a tracker for the army. The more he studied the area, he was convinced the rider met the wagon or saw the tracks, followed it off to the bare-limbed shin oaks that weren’t much more than a dark smudge in the storm, and then rode back out and returned the way he came.

Something caught his eye: an unnatural straight line that shouldn’t be there. The longer he looked, the more the rear of the wagon defined itself. This was very unusual, for there was no reason for a wagon to veer off a reasonably clear road and stop in such weather. For some reason, his gut told him something wasn’t right.

Already cold to the bone, a few more minutes to satisfy his curiosity wouldn’t matter. He gave Rebel a nudge and the horse grunted like an irritated old man. The trail pointed them due north and right into the teeth of the storm. It seemed colder with the wind in his face, if that was possible, and Ridge had to grit his teeth as the horse pushed forward.

A hundred yards away, the wind lessened as the short thicket of shin oaks blocked some of the storm. A gap provided access into the thick cluster of small trees barely ten feet high. The tracks were more distinct, and he quickly came upon a freight wagon piled high with snow.

Ridge’s stomach sank at the sight of four mules dead in their harnesses. It was impossible to tell how they died, but he suspected they’d been shot. His eyes scanned the wagon and came to rest on a figure slumped sideways in the seat. He urged Rebel forward, but the buckskin hesitated, likely smelling frozen blood.

Despite the horse’s reluctance, Ridge urged him close enough to reach out and touch the snow-covered corpse. The body was stiff. Leaning into one stirrup, he took off one glove and reached over to touch the man’s frozen face. Sliding his hand into the collar, he encountered no sense of warmth.

Satisfied there was nothing he could do, Ridge wriggled cold fingers back into the glove and sat in the windbreak to ponder what might have happened. Four mules dead in their tracks spoke of outlaws and robbery. Had they still been standing, Ridge might have thought the driver had died from exposure and the team had simply veered off the road, but that idea didn’t hold water. The wagon hadn’t been in the thicket long enough for the cold to kill all four mules, and they wouldn’t have died at the same time.

The body lay on its right side, so the killers hadn’t robbed him. If they had, the man’s clothes would have been in disarray and the body likely sprawled as they went through the limp man’s pockets. Even his hat still covered the corpse’s head, indicating he’d fallen sideways from the shot and hadn’t moved.

Though he was, for the most part, temporarily out of the hardest gales, Ridge was still bone-cold and tired of it. He thought about going through the man’s clothes for some kind of identification, or maybe a bill of lading that should contain a name of some kind, but he preferred to let the local constabulary do that.

Just as he was ready to go, he caught sight of a paper sticking up from under the driver’s coat collar. Something in the inside pocket had worked its way up and was held in place when it caught the edge of a scarf around his neck. Feeling like a thief, he once again removed his glove and, using his thumb and forefinger, unbuttoned the top of the corpse’s coat to find a packet of letters tied with string.

Ridge envisioned the driver sticking the packet into his inside coat pocket and being tormented with the envelopes constantly working their way upward from the movement of his arms and the wagon’s motion. Simply holding reins in their hands wasn’t the way teamsters drove. It took work and much arm movement to handle four sets of reins, and all the while that coat was moving around and the packet with it.

He took the banded envelopes and stuffed them into his lefthand saddlebag, making sure the latch was secure. Mail was important to folks, and he felt it was better to take them with him than to leave the letters behind. The rest could wait for the local marshal.

Unable to do anything else, he returned to the road, grateful the wind was at his back. His own tracks were already filling in, and those of the rider who’d done the killing were almost indistinguishable. From that angle, he saw he’d returned on his own trail when he reached the road. He turned right into his original direction and fell in to follow for the next mile, alert for trouble, though he didn’t expect it.

The tracks soon joined others at the edge of a growing town that materialized around him and were lost in churned-up snow that was fast smoothing over. Completely blanketed in more than two feet of snow, the main street of Blackjack looked empty.

Smoke rose from a variety of shops and houses. Empty lots that were black gaps between the false front stores reminded Ridge of missing teeth. The town looked to be growing at a right smart pace, but it would be a while until all the vacant lots were filled in, both on the main street and a dozen narrow residential and smaller business areas on either side.

Yellow light spilling from windows along the single main street illuminated plank walks, empty hitching racks, and a couple of wagons parked along the street. The first building was a livery, promising comfort and a relatively warm night for Rebel. The business’s main door was drifted shut.

He dismounted, hammered with one fist, and kicked some of the snow away. “Anyone inside?”

“Do I hear somebody out there?”

“You do. Customer.” Ridge tried to open the door that stuck. “I’ll be a customer if I can get in.”

“Back up a mite. I’ll give her a kick from this side.”

A thump and a mighty shove forced the door open wide enough for Ridge to lead the buckskin inside. The barn was built solid, and the heat from several animals made it feel almost comfortable. The strong odor of manure, hay, and horses was as comforting as a fire.

The liveryman had a broad forehead and a ruddy face that hadn’t been shaved in a while. His smile went from ear to ear. “Think it’s gonna get cold out there?”

Ridge fell into the time-honored discussion of strangers. “Might.”

The liveryman’s grin widened further. He adjusted his britches over a big belly that forced them right back down again. “How long you here for?”

“That depends on the weather.”

The stable owner nodded. “Name’s Kingman. Mitch Kingman. Will it be you and the horse?”

“Depends on if there’s a room here in town. If there is, then it’ll just be Rebel.”

“You shouldn’t have no trouble getting a room at the Reynolds Hotel at the way far end of town. You’ll think you’ve missed it, but she’s there. If they’re full, you can come back and roll up there in the office. I keep the stove going all the time. Come on.”

“I’d have to walk all the way if I left him here.”

“That’s a fact.”

“Is there a livery stable on that end, too?”

Kingman frowned and rubbed at the stubble under his chin. “There is—a small one on the other side of the Red River Saloon—but it’s owned by Jim Barlow, and if you want to hire someone like me who’s honest as the day is long, this is a better place.”

“Well, I’d rather deal with an honest man. You’ll have to tell me that story later.”

“Sure enough.” Kingman led the way down the hall to an empty stall. “Put him in here.”

He leaned against a support post. “My office wouldn’t be a bad place to sleep. I’d only charge you two bits. I hate to be cold at night, and there’s plenty of firewood comes in. I don’t even have to pay for it. We have an old man here in town that dearly loves to cut blackjack oak and don’t ask more’n a mouthful of food or a drink over at the saloon. I swear, I never saw anyone who loves to chop and hates blackjack so much. Says that particular tree offends him and he intends to cut down all he can find.”

All the time Kingman was talking, Ridge was taking the saddle off Rebel and listening, for there was no way to get a word in edgewise with the stable owner talking.

“You here on business or just passing through? Now, it’s none of my business, mind you, and I don’t intend to pry, but if you’re looking for work, I can point you in the right direction. If it’s whiskey you want, well, like I said, hie on down to the Red River. It’s as good a place as any to cut the dust, even though Barlow owns it.

“Hell, what’m I saying? There ain’t no dust today. A good swaller of whiskey’ll warm you up, though. I swear. It’s colder than a well-digger’s ass out there, and I ain’t seen snow like this in a month of Sundays.”

“It’s cold all right.”

“I ’member the winter of ’62, now that was a cold one, too. I got to thinking of that when you mentioned your horse’s name was Rebel. My daddy fought for the south . . .”

The man’s words drifted away when Ridge noticed one of the stall doors leading outside moved ever so slightly. It could have been the wind, but the wood didn’t slap the frame as he would have expected. It was almost as if someone had been listening for a moment.

Ridge swung his wet saddle over a well-chewed wooden stand and slid the Henry from the scabbard. Eyes still darting to the door from time to time, he draped the saddle blanket over the stall’s side and hung his saddlebags on a nearby peg.

Tired of waiting for an opening, he interrupted, “You got a marshal in this town?”

“Sure do. Good one, too. Been marshal here for several years and ain’t no one shot him yet. Name’s Runt Carpenter. It’s a good first name any way you want to say it. Runt. He won’t take no offense, ’cause he’s been called that since he was born. Smallest of ten kids, he always took hind tit and they called him that from the time he could walk.”

“Where’s his office?”

“Just cross the street and go on down past the Red River Saloon, ’bout four doors more and you’ll see it.” Kingman thought for a moment. “In fact, he’s almost directly across from the Great Western Restaurant. You can find him in there sometimes, too, ’cause they serve purty good food in the restaurant that’s part of the building, and they have a little parlor in there where you can get a drink, too. I like to say it’s the best of three worlds.”

Ridge rested the Henry across the crook of his arm and handed Kingman two dollars. “Let me know when that runs out.”

“I’ll do ’er. If you need a good hot cup of coffee to last you till you get down to the marshal’s office, stop by the Blackjack Mercantile across the street. Maggie keeps a pot on all the time.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back when I get back.”

“I’ll be looking for you, then.”

“Oh, hey. You know anyone by the name of Clyde McPeak?”

“Why, I don’t recognize the name. He someone to you?”

“Owes me a hundred bucks. I ask in every town I go through.”

“Well, I hope you find him. A man who can’t pay his debt’s a skunk in my book.”

“Mine too.”

Ridge stepped back out into the cold, intending to get that cup of hot coffee first; then he’d find the marshal.

“My mama says that customers bring more dirt into the store than the wind.”

Ridge Tisdale stopped just inside the Blackjack Mercantile and looked down at his wet boots as the little girl standing less than four feet tall glared at him. The leather was dark with moisture and both feet were almost frozen.

He closed the door to block out the howling snowstorm and frowned, taken aback by the youngster’s sharp statement, which would have made sense six months earlier in the heat of the summer. “There’s no dirt out there right now, Miss Ma’am. It’s all frozen mud and ice and covered up by two foot of snow.”

The winter skies were so dark and gray, the storeowner lit the interior with kerosene lamps scattered around to chase away the shadows. Blessed heat from a pot belly stove smack in the middle of the structure soaked into Ridge’s face as the tiny gal, who looked to be about five years old, continued her verbal attack.

She planted her feet in the middle of the store with both hands on her hips, a doll version of an adult woman dressed in blue gingham. “My mama also says that most cowboys stink like the hind end of the cattle they raise. She’s probably right, because when old man Barlow was in here a few days ago—he’s a rancher, you know—we had to open the doors and let the place air out, let alone it was about freezing outside.”

Ridge’s mouth couldn’t decide to turn upside down, frown, smile, or open and close like a fish as the tiny girl kept talking without taking a breath.

“I swanny, t. . .