Retribution Read online

  Praise for Retribution

  “Intense, exciting, thrilling. An action-packed adventure…” ~ M. Barber

  “Well done. Disturbing and intense. So very difficult to put down.” ~ K.C. Curtis

  “I can't wait for the next book in the series.” ~ Lady Buffington

  “Once I started the book, I couldn’t put it down.” ~ Sharon Simms

  “Fantastic story. Claire Whitcomb is a Wild West version of Leine Basso!” ~ Charles Ray, Ray’s Ramblings

  “This is a fast paced read with excellent characters, great setting and exciting plot.” ~ Hazel Howorth, Reading Stuff ’n’ Things

  “Fabulous storyline. A must read….” ~ Melinda, Goodreads reviewer

  “I have, in past reviews, compared DV with John Sandford. I think her heroines compare well with his guys. In this case I probably would say she is more like Robert Parker. In his later years he added Westerns to his accomplishments, and like his stories, DV's are fast moving books with great word pictures, and plenty of action.” ~ Richard Gordon

  Retribution

  A Claire Whitcomb Western

  Copyright © 2020 by D.V. Berkom

  Published by

  All rights reserved.

  Cover by Deranged Doctor Design

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ***Join DV’s readers’ list to be the first to find out about new releases and exclusive, subscriber-only special offers. (See the back of the book for details)

  Website: dvberkom.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by D.V. Berkom

  Chapter 1

  Whitcomb Homestead, Leadville, Colorado – Spring 1880

  * * *

  Claire wiped the back of her hand across her forehead and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. The bread dough was ready to go into the belly of the Beast—the cast iron stove she and her husband, Josiah had carted all those perilous miles to their new home in Colorado.

  She was glad they’d brought it with them—glad for the warmth from the wood fire, especially in the winter, and for the comforting, steadfast way the Beast always turned out perfectly golden loaves of bread.

  If she was truthful, she was glad to have that last, tenuous connection to their home and family back east. When Josiah had come home that day and announced his intention to move their family to the newly formed state of Colorado, Claire had balked. Their third child, Amy, was barely out of diapers, and the other two were happy with their schooling and friends. Claire herself was not opposed to change but was fiercely protective of her children and disliked disrupting their lives. The one argument she thought would win, that the area where he wanted to settle was dangerous and rife with heathen savages, didn’t have the impact she thought it might. Her husband waved off her fears as overwrought gossip. Eventually, Josiah had worn her down with tales of striking it rich in the silver mines, and she relented.

  The trip out West had been fraught with danger, although in comparison to other pioneering families she’d talked to, not nearly as tragic—they hadn’t lost any lives, thankfully. Rattlesnakes, broken axles, heavy downpours—all normal events in a move west. Because of Claire’s contacts where they lived in Philadelphia and her attention to detail, the family had been prepared for as many eventualities as she could think of, which meant they didn’t go hungry or cold.

  She’d just popped the loaves into the Beast when she heard Josiah yell a warning at the children. She wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the kitchen window to see what he was upset about. Probably some childish insurrection, which normally he’d redirect in a calm and rational matter.

  She spotted Josiah first, standing stock-still with a look on his face that sent chills careening down her spine. Heart in her throat, Claire checked the front yard, searching feverishly for her children. Eight-year-old Nathan stood alone near the old pine, his eyes wide with fright. There was no trace of the two girls.

  A bloodcurdling scream, the likes of which she’d never heard, erupted outside. Fear filled her and she raced for the Winchester rifle kept by the entrance.

  She threw open the door and emerged onto the porch. Josiah turned to her, his mouth open to speak. From her right, the crack of a rifle split the air, the bullet ripping through his skull before he could utter a word.

  Shock spiraled through her as her husband crumpled to the earth. Heart in her throat, she dove behind the metal horse trough they used for laundering and scrambled to the far end for a better view. Several yards away, an Indian wearing a blood red vest and leather breeches sat astride his horse, reloading his weapon. She brought up the rifle, sighted on the man, and squeezed the trigger.

  Too nervous, she missed. She rammed the lever down, seating another cartridge into the chamber, and aimed again.

  But he was already on the move, headed for the old pine.

  Nathan.

  “Nathan! Run!” She pivoted toward her son and aimed the rifle at a second Indian also bearing down upon her first-born.

  Time slowed to a crawl. She took a deep breath, let it go, and fired. The bullet tore through the man’s shoulder, but it didn’t slow him down.

  Already at a full gallop and holding his rifle high, the marauder bore down on Nathan. He swung his arm in an arc and smashed the stock against her child’s head. Nathan tumbled to the ground and didn’t move.

  Claire shook with horror as she levered another cartridge into the chamber and fired, barely registering the acrid smell of gunpowder. She hit her son’s attacker a second time. He fell from his mount, a pile of death on the ground. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she worked the lever again, hoping to hit the other man next. He came straight for her, howling unintelligibly, eyes snapping with rage. She steeled herself, and a calm descended over her. She raised the barrel, sighted him in, and squeezed the trigger.

  At the last minute he reined his horse left, and the bullet went wide. She seated another cartridge and fired again, this time following his trajectory.

  Somehow, she missed again.

  Something whizzed over her head, and she craned her neck to see what it was. A flaming arrow had lodged in the roof. Tinder-dry from lack of rain, the fire would find willing fuel in the wooden shakes.

  Claire glanced past her hiding place to see a third Indian let loose another fiery arrow. This one slammed into a different section of roof. She brought up the rifle and aimed again. At that moment, their eyes met. The coldness she found in their depths spilled ice through her veins.

  She fired.

  Another arrow.

  By now, the roof was ablaze, flames crackling and licking hungrily at the bone-dry shakes. Keeping their distance from Claire, the two remaining attackers started for their fallen comrade. Rage overcame her fear and any sense she might have left. She climbed to her feet and strode down the steps, intending to destroy the men who had taken two of her family from her—shattering the fabric of her new life.

  The first marauder turned as she raised her rifle and fired. The bullet hit the tree branch next to him. He said something to the other and fired back.

  The round kicked
up a fountain of dirt near her, but she kept walking. She ignored the ping of spent brass on gravel as she fired round after round after round. Gun smoke hung thick in the air.

  The man shot at her once more, but he either intentionally missed or his gun misfired. He barked something at the second man, who had dismounted and was struggling with the dead attacker. The second man let the third fall back to the dirt, mounted his horse, and the two thundered off.

  She stopped and took a breath.

  Where were her daughters?

  The thought tore through her grief like sunlight on an overcast day.

  “Laura? Amy?” Her voice echoed through the trees, the wind taking their names to the valley below. “It’s all right. You can come out now,” she called.

  Even though it wasn’t all right.

  There was no answer.

  Dread settling in the pit of her stomach, she made her way to the shed, unsure what she’d find, or if she even wanted to find it.

  Her girls weren’t hiding there, nor were they behind it, concealed by the long, fresh grass of spring. She took another deep breath, a kind of relief flowing through her, and turned to go to Nathan. The girls were fine. They had to be. They knew enough to hide at the sound of gunfire.

  They’d return soon.

  Something next to the well caught her eye. She walked over to the hand pump. A moment of mild annoyance skated through her, as she wondered who had left out the mound of laundry.

  It wasn’t laundry.

  Chapter 2

  Amy and Laura lay still and silent in death—a near impossibility for them both under normal circumstances. The two girls appeared to be sleeping but for the sticky, wet blood that pooled in the shadow of Laura’s smashed collar bone, and the grotesque hoofprint marring Amy’s face. Tears streamed down her cheeks as Claire sank to her knees and pulled first one, then the other to her, cradling their lifeless bodies. She rocked them, her grief escaping in massive, wracking sobs.

  Sometime later—a moment? an hour?—she dried her tears and gently laid them back down, her clothes soaked in their blood. She carefully crossed each girl’s hands over their hearts and closed their eyes.

  Choking back a sob, she climbed to her feet.

  What if the men come back?

  Numb, she glanced at the burning house, now completely engulfed, the skeletal ruins outlined against orange-yellow flames and a heartbreaking blue sky.

  Why hadn’t they killed her when they had the chance?

  A fresh set of tears streamed down her cheeks. Claire stumbled to Nathan, knowing he was gone, not wanting to believe it. Dark blood matted the place where his sandy-brown hair always kicked up in a cowlick, and she had to stop herself from smoothing it down.

  Tenderness welled within her.

  “He was only eight years old,” she said to the trees, but the crackling fire stole her words.

  Her energy waning, she fought the impulse to go to Josiah. She’d seen him killed, his lifeblood ripped from him in an instant. She couldn’t bear the thought of her beloved husband, so full of life and vigor—her champion, her knight in shining armor—dead. Couldn’t bear the weight of what his death now meant.

  In the end, she lost the battle. She staggered to where he lay and crumpled to the ground beside him, her face in the crook of his arm, nestled to his body one last time. He smelled of soap and sweat and the tang of blood. Breathing him in, she closed her eyes, believing for a moment the fiction that he was still alive.

  The screech of a jay woke her. Claire opened her eyes, unsure for a moment where she was. She sat up and took it all in once more, bringing everything back. A sob welled deep within her and escaped.

  The nightmare was real.

  Don’t let them win, Claire. It was Josiah’s voice in her head, as surely as if he’d spoken the words aloud.

  Anger nudged at her like an annoying insect, hopscotching to a crescendo of rage in a matter of seconds. She struggled to stand and sighted on the dead Indian, footsteps away.

  Snatching the rifle from the ground she strode to where he lay. She stared at his face, her chest heaving with anguish. He wore the braids of the local Ute tribe, buckskin leggings, and a beaded vest. Why had they targeted them? Josiah experienced nothing but peaceable encounters with the local natives, and found them good and fair traders, if a little standoffish.

  The rage inside her crested. Claire raised the butt of the rifle and brought it down, again and again.

  And again.

  And more.

  Her anger spent, she lowered the gun and rested it against her thigh. Her violent episode had done more than release her rage. The man’s hair had shifted such that it appeared she’d detached his scalp.

  She knelt to take a closer look. She plucked at his blood-soaked hair, dislodging it, and sat back hard on the ground in surprise. In her hand was a wig, its texture similar to the tail of her beloved horse, Rose.

  Underneath, the man’s real hair lay matted to his skull, partially covered by a woman’s bonnet.

  Claire dropped the wig and crawled closer. Though bloody, the lower portion of his face was still visible. Dark stubble peppered his jaw. A memory surfaced of Josiah joking with a local Ute man who’d come to trade buffalo hides about the other man’s inability to grow facial hair.

  Utes don’t grow beards.

  Claire touched his chin. Definitely stubble. She glanced at her finger. A dark stain covered the tip. She withdrew a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped it across his neck. The white material came away brown. She held it to her nose, then jerked it away at the rancid odor of beef tallow mixed with blood.

  This man is no Indian.

  The memory emerged of locking gazes with the savage who came at her. His eyes were blue. Not brown, like most all the other Indians she’d seen.

  Claire stood and picked up her gun, confused by the idea of a white man dressing as an Indian. Had the other two attackers been white, too? She closed her eyes trying to remember, but the details wouldn’t come.

  They must have been. Otherwise, why would two natives join with a white man dressed like them to destroy another man’s homestead?

  But who would do such a thing? Try as she might, Claire couldn’t figure a reason to kill her husband and children and burn her home to the ground. They owned little, had yet to “strike it rich” on any of Josiah’s claims.

  She vowed not to rest until she found out.

  With the rifle close, Claire retrieved a shovel from the shed and set about the grim job of burying her family.

  Hours later, dazed and exhausted, Claire set the shovel down and stared at the four freshly dug graves. The unyielding ground had demanded much, and she was spent. Used up.

  Numb.

  She’d had to roll Josiah into his final resting place, unable to pick him up or even drag his body to the shallow hole she’d managed to form from the hard-packed earth.

  Nate, Amy, and Laura had been so much more difficult, and not because of their weight. There would be no more laughter from her cheerful, loving children. Nate would no longer tease his sisters with frogs from the creek. The sisters would never again gang up on their brother. Or play, or sing, or release their joyful energy with their rough-and-tumble fights. She’d never see another twinkle in Josiah’s eyes when he told them to behave.

  As the shadows lengthened into early evening, Claire Whitcomb said a prayer for her family, entrusting their souls into the everlasting care of the Creator. She ignored the battered body of the man she’d killed.

  His two accomplices hadn’t returned.

  She didn’t care.

  The rifle at her side, Claire sank to the earth next to her children’s graves. She rolled onto her back to stare at the brilliant stars, and silently prayed for God to take her, too.

  Chapter 3

  The next day, Claire awoke to birdsong and sun streaming through the old pine’s branches. It was a beautiful morning, with a gentle breeze soughing through the pines and scrub oaks. Bits
and pieces of her memory from the attack returned, unbidden. She choked back an anguished sob and bit down hard on her knuckles to keep from crying.

  Stop it, Claire. Cry later.

  Right now, she had work to do.

  Stiff with cold from sleeping on the ground, she climbed to her feet and brushed the dirt from her clothes, realizing as she did that she was still covered in blood. She glanced at the burned-out husk of her home. She doubted anything survived the fire—certainly not clothing or material.

  Rifle in hand, she made her way to the barn. Rose snorted a welcome as Claire waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior.

  “Hey there, lovely,” she cooed as she rubbed her horse’s nose. Josiah’s horse, Brick, whinnied in tandem. Rose snuffled her hand, expecting a lump of sugar or a carrot. Instead, Claire put a lead on them both and walked them outside to a grassy area next to the house so they could graze.

  Claire walked back into the barn and took one of Josiah’s work shirts from a hook on the wall. She exchanged her bloody shirt for his and tucked the shirttails into her dirty, blood-stained skirt. It would have to do.

  Next, she cleaned her face at the horse trough and did her best to make herself presentable. Once Rose and Brick had eaten their fill, Claire put Brick back in his stall, saddled Rose, and headed for town.