“Very good, my love. You may be seated while I eat.”
“I could clean up instead. You mustn’t like the mess.” While
eating distracted him, she could slip a knife into her apron pocket.
“Afterwards.”
It wasn’t worth arguing. Seating herself, she tried to ignore
her empty stomach and watering mouth as he consumed her labors. Outside of
civilized company, it seemed, women did not eat with men. Women served men
first, and ate afterward. Consequently, Simon had to eat with a gun in one hand
and his fork in the other. One didn’t forfeit morality, he’d explained to her,
for the sake of convenience.
She’d refrained from mentioning that he’d murdered two
people for convenience.
Recollection of Jane’s pale face as he threw her from the
wagon filled Star’s vision. She shoved it aside. She must, instead, focus on
saving herself, for she could not expect outside help. The farmhouse lay in a
remote area, twenty miles or more outside of Chicago. Her family, if they even
thought to look for her, would search the city. She doubted, too, the
usefulness of Simon’s remaining relatives, if any existed. He’d not have killed
his cousin if he expected anyone to miss him. No, she must save herself, which
might require killing Simon.
Could she do it? Rage smoldered in her belly, and her muscles
ached from forcing them to maintain a sort of perpetually-prepared numbness.
She could use that pent up rage and energy to harm him, but it might also cause
her to make mistakes.
“I am done, my love.”
She rose to remove his dishes. After scraping food into a
slop bucket to feed the pigs, she turned to drop the dishes and utensils into a
wash bin. Something squished under her foot and emitted a little squeal. “Oh!”
Simon jumped up. “What is it? Put down the knife!”
She’d tread on a mouse! A
tiny
little thing, crawling
toward a hole in the floor.
“God damn it, woman, you
shall
listen when a man
addresses you!” Simon took two steps forward, grabbed the handle of the knife
and yanked it from her hand. The blade slid along her fingers. Crying out, she
dropped dishes and utensils. She opened her hand to examine the wound. A small
line sliced diagonally along her fingers. Blood. Her blood, spilled by Simon.
Like his cousin’s, like Jane’s. Like Bella’s. That smoldering rage flared to
life.
“Damn it, Simon, that hurt!”
“It’s what you deserve for squealing.”
“I didn’t squeal. It was the mouse,” she said, pointing at
it with her uninjured hand.
Looking in that direction, he raised his gun. A bang. A
bullet cut the poor thing in half, spraying blood all over the wall. Star
stared in horror, tears springing to her eyes.
“You
bastard
,” she spat out, turning to him again.
“Why would you do that?”
“What did you call me?” he asked, taking a step forward.
Rage blurred her vision, smothering the pain of the knife
wound. “A bastard. An ass, a son of a bitch. If I knew any other curse words
I’d—”
He lifted his left hand to hit her. Too angry to fear
danger, she shoved his gun hand aside, and raised her knee to jam it into his
groin. His blow glanced off the top of her head as he bent over with a low
moan. Clasping her hands together, she smashed them down on his back, sending
him to the floor. On top of his gun. She couldn’t get to it, damn it, without
risking him overpowering her.
But she could run.
She lunged for the door. Through it. Jumped from the top of
the steps, stumbled briefly, corrected for it, and ran to barn. To horses, to
safety.
***
“Bloody hell,” Del whispered. “He wouldn’t actually shoot
her, would he?”
“He shot at Jane.”
“Damn him,” Del said, jumping up. “I’m going to rip him limb
from limb.”
While fighting his own mounting fury, Nick grabbed Del’s
wrist. “Settle down! You go into this baldheaded and we’ll all get killed.”
Del yanked free and stepped into the yard.
“Goddamn it she may be still alive!” Nick hissed.
Del stopped five feet from the woodpile, within eyesight of
anyone who looked out the window. Wide-eyed, he turned to Nick. “You think he’d
shoot her just to
hurt
her?”
“Del, get
down
—”
The door burst open. Star jumped from the top of the steps,
landing on her feet like a cat. She fled across the yard and through the doors
of the barn. Before Nick had a chance to acknowledge relief, Simon emerged. He
was stumbling, bent over in a way that could only mean one thing. Nick grinned.
Good girl
!
Del raised his gun. “Stop right there, Price!”
Sonuvabitch
!
Nick ducked down as Price turned and aimed. The bullet
slammed into Del, spinning him backward before he hit the ground. Del’s
answering shot went astray and Price turned toward the barn. Nick shot at his
back, but Price was already moving. The bullet only grazed his arm. He made it
to the barn and around the side, most likely to sneak around back and bushwhack
Star from the rear door.
“Damn,” Nick swore and crept on his knees toward Del. He
kept his eyes on the barn in case Price decided to come after them first.
“Del,” he whispered, reaching his side. After one last look at the barn, Nick
focused on Price’s latest victim. The bullet had gone through his left
shoulder. As Del opened his eyes, Nick pulled out his handkerchief and folded
it into a bandage.
“McGraw. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Glad for it too, I’ll bet,” he said. “A shoulder wound.
You’ll live.” He pressed the bandage hard against the bullet wound and Del
gasped. “I know it hurts, but hold tight to it anyhow. It’ll slow the blood
loss.” He took Del’s right hand and covered the bandage.
Del swallowed. “All right. I’ve got it. You go after Star.
Make sure that bastard doesn’t hurt her.”
“I will.” Nick paused as an idea formed. Glancing at the
barn, he pulled out his knife. Del’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Listen, McGraw,” Del whispered, licking his lips as he
stared at the blade. “I’m sure your frontier medicine has saved some lives, but
with all due respect, I’d rather wait for a doctor with a medical degree.”
Nick cut a small hole in the thigh of his pants. “I’m not
doctorin’. I’m making it look like I took that last bullet. It’ll give me an
excuse for using the cane.” He gently took the bloody bandage from Del’s
shoulder and smeared his blood around the hole.
Del raised his eyebrows. “He’ll figure it out,” he said, as
Nick replaced the bandage. He tore off his jacket for additional padding.
“I’ll only need a minute.”
Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
Star peered around the corner of the empty stall next to
her. Across from her were two more stalls with horses waiting impatiently for
their morning exercise. She’d been searching for a rope or halter so she could
climb aboard one of them and flee, bareback if necessary, when she’d heard
gunshots in the yard. Heart pounding, she’d dived behind the empty stall and
plastered herself against the wall. She
thought
she’d heard the door
open, thought she’d seen a flash of light before it closed, too, but he hadn’t
made any move since then. Was it her imagination? If he’d entered, why wouldn’t
he just come after her? He had the gun and she was unarmed. Unless those shots
indicated a threat to him. But who?
It didn’t need to be a person. He’d shot a mouse.
Everything
threatened Simon and his overblown sense of self-worth.
She took a breath. He’d fired three shots. The mouse made
four, which left him with only two bullets in his six-shooter.
One was plenty enough to kill her.
If, however, she could induce him to shoot it twice, the gun
would be empty. They’d be all but evenly matched.
Inducing that kind of violence could get
her
shot.
No, she was going to have to kill or disable him first. It was her only chance.
How?
There, next to the empty stall door, was a pitchfork. Could
she really stick him with it? She shuddered. She didn’t know. Perhaps, instead,
she could wait next to the barn door for his entrance and hit him over the
head, hard enough to render him unconscious.
Creeping around the corner, she reached for it. The rough
wood rubbed against her knife wound and she winced. Damn Simon, maybe she could
kill him after all!
Behind her came the sound of creaking. A click followed . .
. a latch, to the door behind her. The barn’s
back
door! Before she
could turn, something hard and round stuck in the middle of her back—the gun. A
hand landed on her shoulder. Strong fingers dug into her muscles. “Any sudden
moves, Virginia, and this gun will go off. Drop the pitchfork.”
Her heart climbed up her throat, and her stomach clenched as
a wave of dizziness passed over her. He was going to kill her. Here, in this
barn.
Oh God, think, Star, think
!
Nothing came to mind. She dropped it.
“Good,” he said. Holding her arm, he pushed her into the
open area between the stalls. “You there,” Simon called out. “I’ve got my gun
in her back. Come out or I’ll shoot her.”
Her heart fluttered in her throat as she searched the gloom.
Someone else was here? Someone
else
had opened that door.
“My gun’s pointed at your head,” came a voice from the other
side of the horses’ stalls. “Let her go.”
Nicholas
. Her heart lifted. Then fell. And started to
slam against her rib cage. Simon might hesitate to kill her, but he would
murder Nicholas without compunction.
The barrel of the gun came around her back to dig into her
waist. “I’ll shoot her in the stomach. She’ll die in agony.”
Her belly tightened as if in preparation for the threatened
shot.
“O.K.,” Nicholas answered, and came out from behind the
stall. Her eyes ran over him, drinking in the tense muscles of his face, his
white shirt stretching over his hard, lean chest and his black worsted pants.
With a hole and blood smear in the thigh. Simon’s shots in the yard . . .
Nicholas’s gun dangled in his right hand as he took a couple of steps toward
them. He leaned on a cane in his left hand. His rifle cane.
“McGraw,” Simon said, lightly. “How did you find—” He
stopped, peering at him. “I thought I hit you in the chest.”
“Nope. You all right, Miz Montgomery?”
“You may as well use her given name,” Simon rasped. “I know
you’ve been fucking her.”
Star flinched. A muscle jumped in Nicholas’s cheek. “Let her
go.”
Simon dug the gun deeper into her side. He cocked it. The
sound echoed in her brain as she convulsively tried to swallow the lump of fear
in her throat.
“Drop the gun, McGraw.”
Nicholas’s eyes caught hers. He leaned more heavily on the
cane. A signal, she thought, in case she hadn’t marked it already. But what
could he possibly do with Simon’s pistol pointed at him? “Let her go, first, so
she doesn’t get shot accidentally. Neither one of us wants her dead, Price. You
can’t have redeemed her yet.”
“Drop your gun, and I’ll move mine away from her belly.”
“O.K.,” Nick said. He dropped his gun.
And Simon shifted his pistol to press the cold barrel
against her temple.
Splendid
, Star thought hysterically.
Now I won’t
die in agony. Instead, my brains will be splattered across the barn.
“How did you find us?” Simon asked.
“Dumb luck, I reckon.”
“I’m no fool, McGraw. You must have talked to someone.”
“O.K. then, I hired a Pinkerton,” Nicholas answered. “He
found out about your cousin’s farm. It only stood to reason if you were comin’
to Chicago, you’d head here.”
Perhaps, Star thought trying to calm the hysteria, if she
convinced Simon to point his gun away from her, she could bump him as she had
with Jane. It would set off his aim and Nicholas could shoot him with the cane
rifle.
Trying to catch Nicholas’s gaze she shifted her eyes several
times to her right.
Please, darling, understand
!
“I would have sworn I shot—”Simon started.
Suddenly the barn door opened and a figure appeared behind
Nicholas, cutting Simon’s words short. Silhouetted in the sunlight of the barn
doors, stood a man, slightly stooped over. Holding a gun. His arm shook as he
tried to aim it. His voice was weak but familiar—“Drop it, Price.”
Del.
Nicholas turned to look, while Simon moved his arm to aim.
Free of the gun muzzle to her head, Star slammed into Simon, shoving him
sideways, and then dove for Nicholas’s forgotten revolver. Del’s gun went off.
Followed by Simon’s.
Del yowled. Star’s hands closed around the six-shooter. She
rolled on her back and raised the gun while Simon, still off balance, took a
step to steady himself. Another and he tripped over the pitchfork, catapulting
into Nicholas. They started to roll around, the cane lost in the struggle.
Oh God, how was she to shoot now? She wasn’t even sure
how
to shoot a revolver. It wasn’t like a rifle at all.
Simon got one arm free and slammed a fist into the side of
Nicholas’s head. Taking advantage of Nicholas’s pain, he broke away and lunged
for the pitchfork.
Shakily Star pulled back the hammer, cocking the gun, just
as Nicholas reached for the cane. Simon raised the pitchfork over his head,
aiming it at Nicholas’s stomach.
Star squeezed the trigger.
Blood spurted from Simon’s arm. His eyes widened. He
lurched, but didn’t drop the fork. Instead, he lifted it higher. Oh God! Star
cocked the gun and adjusted her aim. Before she could pull the trigger though,
another shot rang out. A hole appeared in Simon’s shirt, over his heart. A red
stain spread around it. He stared down, shocked. Then the pitchfork fell, and
he slumped to the ground. Dead.