Bounty

There was a body inside the house, Josh could feel it.

He stood on the porch as the chill wind blew sand around his boots and against the wood planks of the house. The warm feeling inside him, long absent and only just recently returning, had started again. It sat low in his belly, just above his groin, a ball of heat like a stone pulled from the ashes of a smoking fire. It wasn't too bad, not yet, but Josh knew what the sensation meant. He had only felt it twice before, and both times he had been near a dead body.

A dead body that suddenly started to move.

Behind him, Clementine tossed her head and snorted where she stood tied to the porch railing.

"Easy, girl," Josh whispered. He licked his dry lips and reached for the door latch. The warmth spread, became a hot, prickling sensation that filled his chest and spread down his arms, bringing his hand to a stop.

He swallowed the little spit left in his mouth and stared at the door latch. If Agnes were behind the door, he didn't think he could do what had to be done, not to her. She was the only mother he had known. He should just turn, step off the porch, climb into the saddle, and ride off into the September dusk.

But what if it wasn't Agnes dead inside the house? What if it was someone else, maybe an Indian attacker Agnes had shot, and then she had gone for help? Or maybe it was an older lady caller who had had a bad heart? Josh had to know for sure.

He moved away from the door, crossing the porch in three long strides to lean his rifle against the house. Cupping his hands around his eyes, Josh peered through the dust-streaked window.

A single oil lamp was lit, the flame fluttering in the drafty sitting room. Josh squinted and looked all around the room but saw no sign of a body.

Yet the heat inside him remained, building, growing hotter still. It was as if his blood was being boiled over a fire and poured back inside him.

Clementine snorted again, impatiently it seemed to Josh, and he shot the mare a dirty look. "Clem, hush now. I'll take the saddle off soon."

Josh picked up his rifle and moved back to the door. He adjusted his grip on the wooden stock, checked to make sure the safety was off, then thumbed the door latch and pushed inside.

Shadows filled the long sitting room, shifting and swaying in the flicker of the lamp. Embers glowed inside the stone fireplace, a sure sign something was amiss: Agnes never let the fire burn down that low during the day. The small dining room was darker still, place settings on the table.

"Agnes?" Josh called and winced at the tremor in his voice. He could feel oily beads of sweat on his forehead and swiped his coat sleeve across the surface.

Just like a few days ago, out at the Overbrooke farm.

Josh shook the thought from his head and headed toward the dining room, intending to check the small bedroom where Agnes slept. "Agnes? Are you here?"

Blue material on the floor across the sitting room caught the corner of his eye, and he stopped fast. A cold spot seemed to bloom inside his chest, a nugget of ice within the waves of heat rolling through him, and he reached up to remove his hat.

"Agnes?"

No response. Agnes laid face down, right hand extended above her head. Her silver hair had come loose from the customary bun and covered her face.

"No, Agnes," Josh said, his voice quiet, almost lost in the sound of the wind.

As the sun edged lower in the sky, Josh moved to kneel beside her, careful not to get too close. There was no sign of violence that he could see, she must have just fallen where she stood. Her heart, maybe, or that cough she'd had for a while now which had seemed to be getting deeper of late. Whatever it had been, she was gone, and Josh bowed his head. He said a quiet prayer, wishing peace to headstrong, loving Agnes, who had opened her house and her heart to him so many years ago. Streams of sweat mixed with his tears as the heat built inside him, and regret churned within him over his actions the last few days: he had been on edge, angry, and defensive with Agnes.
Surely, if he had just sat down to talk with Agnes about Wayland Overbrooke, explained his side of things, she might have been able to provide some idea why it was happening at all.

But Josh hadn't been thinking very clearly the last few days. He had stayed away from the house most of each day and not said more than two words to Agnes when he was home. It had been out of character, he knew that, but the confusion and rising guilt had gnawed at him, and he had not yet found the words to explain himself to Agnes.

Because he had never shot a man before.

Josh stood and stumbled backwards across the room. He was lightheaded and drenched in sweat, the strange heat growing, prickling just beneath his skin. The backs of his legs struck the rocking chair, Agnes's rocking chair, and he sat down hard, the rifle clapping against the arm rests and making him jump.

He caught his breath as darkness slowly took the room. While the shadows lengthened, Josh sat stiff and alert in the rocker, resigned to keeping watch. He wanted, no, needed, to see if the warm feeling inside him was a common sign. And if it was, he thought he knew how to make sure Agnes stayed dead.