Judgment Day. William W. Johnstone
“As if you didn’t know!”
Jason blinked a couple of times, and looked to be carefully choosing his next words before he spoke. “Megan, I’ve been sort of busy this morning, and I—”
But carefully chosen or not, he didn’t have much time to get the thought out, because she cut him off with a toss of her head.
“Oh, no you don’t, Jason Fury. We’ve been over and over this. And don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve got to do something about Matt and Jenny!”
Jason let out a long sigh. Matt and Jenny must be at it again, as they had been almost continually of late. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Megan, you know I predicted this from the start. But Jenny’s the one who has to decide whether or not she wants out. Either she or Matt. I’ve told you—and I’ve told Jenny—that I’m not going to meddle in their business. I haven’t since they got hitched, and I won’t start now.”
He’d told Jenny all right, told her on her wedding day. She’d made her bed, and now she’d have to lie in it. It didn’t sound like she was finding it any too comfortable either.
Megan appeared to relax just a bit. At least, part of the starch seemed to go out of her spine, and she sat down in the wooden chair opposite his before her shoulders collapsed into a dejected slouch.
He leaned across the desk, toward her, and said softly, “Megan? Megan honey, I know it’s hard, believe me.”
He did know, probably better than anyone else. Probably even better than Megan, even though she was Matt’s sister, and even though she was living in the same house with Matt and Jenny.
But he also knew that Megan didn’t believe him. In fact, she pulled back from him with a jolt, spitting, “Oh, that’s so easy for you to say, Jason!” She went to her feet and all the stiffness and starch, all the ramrod straightness, was back in place.
“I can see I won’t make any progress here. Excuse me. I have errands.”
And she left, turning on her heel and leaving a stunned Jason to suffer the echoes of a slammed door and rattling window glass.
With Saul finally down and sleeping next to his wife upstairs, Doc Morelli quietly let himself out the front door, checking to make sure the CLOSED sign was visible before he locked the door, and pocketed the key. He’d give it back tomorrow, he guessed.
He paused momentarily, then altered his direction. No, he thought. I’ll just give it to the sheriff now and be done with it.
He walked up the street in time to see Megan’s dramatic exit from the office, but by the time he reached the door she’d slammed out of, she had remounted and ridden past him at a fast clip. He thought she was going to speed it up into a gallop once she passed the break in the wall that opened onto the vast prairie outside of town, but instead, she reined in next to it and tied her horse. She walked around the corner and headed toward the wagons that had parked south of the wall yesterday.
As angry as Megan looks, she’s going shopping? he wondered as he reached for the sheriff’s office door. He surely wouldn’t want to be a vendor this morning!
He pushed down the door latch and let himself in.
“Now what?” Jason snapped before his head came up and his scowl softened into a smile. “Sorry, Doc,” he added, gesturing to the empty chair on the other side of his desk.
Morelli waved one hand and dug into his pocket with the other. “No, can’t stay, just had a bit of business to take care of….”
His hand found the key and he stepped forward to place it on the desk. “That’s to Cohen’s Hardware,” he said, pointing at it. “I just got Saul put to bed.”
Jason nodded. “Medicated?”
Morelli’s hand went to the back of his neck and his eyes closed for a moment. “Lord! It took half a bottle just to knock him off his feet. Jason, don’t hold it against him. What happened this morning, I mean. You’ve just got to feel sorry—”
Jason stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it, Doc. I forgot about it already.”
Morelli nodded. Jason was wise beyond his years, he thought, then said it aloud.
Jason made no remark except to say, “Go on, Doc. Get out of here. Heck, I’ll go with you,” he added, shoving back his chair and standing.
Morelli smiled despite himself while Jason came around the desk to join him. It was odd, especially with Morelli being Jason’s senior, but at times the doctor felt oddly the junior of the two. He supposed this had something to do with Jason’s having shepherded him—and all the others in the original wagon train—clear out from Indian Territory after the death of Jason’s father, Jedediah.
Still, it was rather strange.
“Hungry yet?” Jason asked. He reached around Morelli to open the door.
Morelli glanced at the office clock. A quarter to twelve. “It’s a little early for me,” he said, stepping out onto the boardwalk. And he was thinking, Poor Jason! Jenny’s gone, and you can surely tell it by his clothes. They’re practically rags!
“A tad early for me, too, come to think of it,” Jason replied, then tipped his hat. “See you later, Doc,” he said. He turned on his heel and started down the street, toward Megan MacDonald’s tethered horse and the wagons lined along the wall outside the southern entrance to Fury.
2
West of the Santa Rita Mountains A few days east of Fury
Richard Blake, a short, stocky pilgrim with his rifle at his side and his old, worn Bible beneath his jolting seat, drove the lead wagon in the tiny train, headed west for greener pastures. His wife, Laura, sat beside him, holding their first baby, the newly born Seth. Blake felt bad about that. He had promised his wife that they’d be long settled by the time the baby came.
Laura had voiced no complaint, though, God bless her. She was a treasure. His treasure. He listened to her coo to the baby, and he smiled.
A man who had just come east from California had told him of a town not too far distant: a town called Fury. He’d said it was much smaller than Tucson, if a fellow was looking for that, and that they had most of the modern conveniences: a doctor, teachers for the children, a good well in the center of town, and so on. There was already a preacher, he’d said, but not even half the town went to hear him preach.
And after the man confided in Blake at length, Blake understood why.
So Blake was thinking that perhaps Fury was the place for him and Laura to set down some roots. He’d said nothing to either Laura or their companions, though. If Carlisle was his middle name, then Caution was his nickname.
Beside him, Laura cooed to the baby again. Blake smiled, as if she were making those burbling sounds for him. He normally rode his saddle horse, Buck, but he’d opted to drive the wagon today so as to allow Laura to devote all her time to the baby. Buck was happily tied to the rear of the wagon, following along.
The morning was clear, the horizons were empty, and the world was before him. He led the other wagons onward, westward, toward Fury.
The town had been in existence only a scant two years, built by the bare hands of pioneers where before there had only been a broad desert prairie sliced vertically by a lonely—and sporadically flowing—creek. Distant, veiled mountains rose to the south, beyond which lay Mexico. To the north, even more distant mountains lined the horizon.
Fury was the name the townsfolk had given the small settlement, in honor of the famous wagon master who had started them westward, and died before they were halfway there. If any man had deserved the honor, it had been Jedediah Fury.
Now, nearly two years since the first walls of the new buildings had risen, since Saul Cohen had begun work on what now served as the town well