“And we were off and runnin’.” Reese, who was finally recovering his equilibrium, grinned.
“It was up to me, next,” put in Gabriel at this point, chuckling. He had found a sycamore stump to plop down upon; might as well enjoy the telling of this yarn, since he had played as large a role as anyone else. “I hightailed it on over to the undertaker’s, told Simon there’d been a killin’ and I needed his cheapest coffin for the morrow.”
Camellia was shaking her head, either in dismay or approval. Or a mixture of both. “And what about poor Reverend Beecham?”
“Oh, he’s in on it. Only other’n, besides us, that knows the truth of what happened. And he agreed with what we did.”
“The problem was that, even payin’ off Justice, and gettin’ rid of him,” Paul, recalling the past few worrisome days with clarity, mused aloud, “even gettin’ that telegram that Reese was innocent—how could we stop just any ole killer for hire from trackin’ the boy, and takin’ a pot shot? No, best thing to do was knock off Cole, for his own good.”
Letitia couldn’t restrain a shiver.
“The California Marshal said he’d put the news out, too. But I figured that wasn’t enough. Not to ensure a safe future for this feller her. So that’s when Miss Hannah stepped in.” He smiled at her with a warmth that went straight to the marrow of her bones.
“And what possible advantage is there to having a job at the Gazette as reporter if you can’t use it?” she pertly wanted to know. “I simply wrote an article about a man wanted for murder, one Cole Forrester, who had been found innocent of all charges, and then killed anyway by a bounty hunter.”
“So she spread the word like wildfire,” Gabriel pointed out.
“Not only did we publish here in town, but I sent copies to newspapers in Denver, San Francisco, Albuquerque, St. Louis, Chicago... My, my,” she reminisced, with a wicked grin, “I used up the Gazette’s annual postage budget in one fell swoop.”
A number of sighs went around the circle. Sighs of relief, of gratitude, or compassion, of general well-being, of congeniality.
“So,” Ben said quietly into the silence. “No more Cole Forrester, I’m afraid. But I’ve got this bro
ther named Reese Barclay that I’m—” he paused, cleared his throat, and tried again, “—that I’m almighty proud of. I’m hopin’ he sticks around for a long, long time. Just as,” he exchanged glances with his circle of friends, “I’m hopin’ the same for my brothers in arms. Thank you.”
Male hands reached out, male hands came together in a grip to cement the Burton clan, and everyone else as honorary members. These eight people had undertaken a conspiracy to protect one of their own, due to love and respect. They had succeeded, in hearts and spades.
After a moment, after a few sniffles from the ladies and a few sessions of rapid blinking from these tall, stalwart men, Reese suddenly turned toward his own fiancé.
“Tish.”
Her limpid blue gaze met his, and her heartbeat began to ratchet up into nervous flutters.
“You okay with all this? With my name, and so on?”
“I am, of course. It’s all I’ve ever known you by, Reese Barclay.”
Suddenly, there on that little knoll, near the marker that held all of his old life and in front of all this family who meant so much to him, he awkwardly went down on one knee before her. Letty sucked in a breath of astonishment and delight as he took both her hands in his.
“Tish, sweetheart. I reckon we’d kinda already settled this, but I wanna make sure. I love you more’n the sun, moon, and stars above, and there’s nothin’ I want in this life except you b’side me, with every step. Letitia Burton, will you marry me?”
Somehow she managed to smile through the ready tears; somehow she managed to reply despite a bubbling up of emotion. “Y-Y-Yes, Reese, dear. I would be exceedingly honored and—and h-h-happy to be your wife.”
“Ahuh. Soon?”
“As soon,” she swallowed past the lump in her throat, “as soon as humanly possible.”
“That’s good. That’s mighty good. Next week, maybe? ’Cause I can’t wait much longer.” With a whoop almost like a crow of triumph, Reese pulled her into his embrace for one of his luxuriant kisses, with no beginning and no end.
Had it not been unseemly to do so at the site of a funeral service, however contrived, the others would have applauded with overwhelming joy. Instead, they added murmurs and best wishes and a few slaps on the back.
“Cam.”
“Yes, Ben?”
“You feelin’ okay? Rested? Got some energy back?”
“Why—yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”