The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,35

and out of dry ruts.

“I hear you, Miles darling. Truly I do.”

Things Are Not Always As They Seem

Other things were brewing in the territory beside Letty Murphy’s rage and grief.

A three-day ride away, Milt and Art Bolin, a pair of would-be outlaws, were brewing up their own concoction of trouble and as always with the Bolins and their plans, whatever they started, someone else would have to finish.

“I tell ya’, Milt, that ain’t no boy. ’At’s a girl, so hep me God.”

Milt Bolin sneered at Art, his one and only brother, who was peering through a crack in the stable wall at the red-headed youth forking hay. The observation he’d just made was almost too far-fetched to swallow. No self-respecting female would cut off her hair, or for that matter, be caught dead in a pair of men’s pants, but the idea of starting a little trouble was too good to ignore.

“There’s one sure way to find out,” Milt said. He pushed his brother aside and swaggered through the door of the livery as if he owned it and Mudhen Crossing, as well.

If it hadn’t been for the dust in the hay she was forking, Caitlin O’Shea might have seen them coming. But she sneezed, and when she did, her eyes went shut. When she opened them, Milt and Art were standing between her and the door.

“I don’t know,” Milt said. “He don’t fill out those pants enough to be a she.”

Caitie’s heart sank. It was all over now. What, she wondered, had given her away?

“Yeah. And he’s wearin’ his hair shorter than any girl I ever seen,” Art added, ready to deny the theory, although it was his suspicions that had started the conversation to begin with.

“Speak up, boy! What’s your name?” Milt asked, and poked Caitie roughly on the arm.

Caitie aimed her pitchfork at the men to punctuate her warning. “Leave me the hell alone, ye sneakin’ bastards.”

Milt grinned. “Oowee. He’s a feisty one, now, ain’t he? And damned if he don’t talk funny. I don’t know as how I much care whether he’s a he or a she. I might be tempted to try a little of that anyways. Where are you from boy? Are you one a’ them English dudes? I might like to try out a tea-sipper.”

Rage at being unjustly accused of belonging to the hated English race made her shake, but at this moment, keeping quiet was a wiser decision than arguing the tongue of her native country.

Art frowned. His older brother’s tastes were definitely not his own.

“Oh hell, Milt, give it a rest. That’s plumb indecent and you know it. If Mamma could hear you she’d—”

Milt slapped him up aside the head. “Mamma’s dead. And you’re gonna be too, if you keep tellin’ me what to do all the time. Got that?”

Art flushed. Fury mingled with fear. Fear won out. He glared at the stable boy and stepped aside. He lived for the day when someone, even his brother, would give him the respect he believed he deserved. Unfortunately, it was unlikely to happen.

The Bolin Brothers undistinguished reputation had earned them nothing but ridicule throughout the territory. No matter what crime they attempted to commit, it either went awry or fell short of their expectations. They were so unimportant in the scheme of things in Mudhen Crossing that they didn’t even have a price upon their heads. It was a constant matter of great discussion between them as to how that might be rectified. And while they were always planning on bigger and better things, it never hurt to keep the waters muddied, which was what they were about right now.

Milt glanced at Art, then back at the kid, squinting his eyes against the light. “We could kidnap him and trade him for ransom.”

Caitie laughed aloud. “And who the bleedin’ hell would be payin’ a plug nickel for me hide?”

It was a mistake. They’d been laughed at all their life. Having a snot-nosed boy laugh at one of their plans wasn’t going to be tolerated.

“Get him!” Milt yelled, and lunged for the pitchfork as Art went for Caitie’s feet.

Two against one was nothing for a girl who’d raised herself on the streets of Dublin. She threw the pitchfork like a spear, nimbly dodging their attack. It sailed through the air with unerring aim, pinning Art’s hands to the stable floor just as he tripped and fell.

“Aagh! Milt! Milt! Gawdalmighty! Help me! He’s gone and kilt me and that’s for sure!”

Milt had trouble all