Authors: Michelle; Griep
The tail of it whiffed near her ear.
Grace screeched.
She froze.
Samuel roared. “McDivitt! So help me, if you touch my wife—”
“Justice must be served, Heath.” The man closed in on her. “Rafe, Stane, tie her up.”
His words smeared across the coming darkness, ugly, black, and sinister. She swayed, her breathing shallow. Her knees shivery. No! Everything in her screamed a bloody absolutely not.
Samuel slid between her and the man with the whip, the breadth of his shoulders blocking her view.
“Then whip me. It’s my privilege as a husband to take on my wife’s sentence.”
Her mouth dropped. Was this real—or a nightmare?
Grace’s tears soaked into Eleanor’s bodice. “Etsi!”
Eleanor retreated. Oh that she may gain the safety of the cabin before anyone noticed.
Her view widened as she backed away.
The man jerked his head toward Samuel, the whites of his eyes huge. “You’ll serve her debt?”
“I will.”
Her step hitched, as did her breath. A jolt hit every nerve, leaving behind a jittery unease. Had he really just agreed to a lashing? Because of her?
As if he’d read her mind, Samuel’s dark gaze bore straight into her heart. He nodded toward the house.
She turned and ran.
Once inside, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it, glad for the support. Grace choked her, squirming in her arms. What to do? She slid to the floor in a daze.
My precious Lord;
My only hope;
My Saviour, how I need You now.
The prayer circled back and slammed into her, as shocking as the crack of the whip outside. She flinched. Of course she needed help—but Samuel needed it more.
Rising, she dashed over to her bed and unwrapped Grace as she might a wet cape, so unyielding did the girl cling to her. The snap of the whip violated the coming evening.
“Here, sweet.” She grabbed a rag doll off the pillow where Grace had last played and thrust it into her hands. Then she looked deep into the child’s blue eyes, swollen with tears. “Stay put. You hear me? Do not move!”
Grace’s lip quivered.
Eleanor softened her tone. “I shall be back straightaway. I promise.”
The child let out a shaky breath, then dove under the pillow.
Eleanor snatched her pistol off a shelf and darted for the front door, hesitating with her palm on the latch. Could she do this?
Crack!
Indeed. If Samuel hadn’t stepped in, that would be her back bearing the lash. He wouldn’t have left her alone with nothing but angry men and pain.
She slipped out the door, strode to the edge of the porch, and stopped. Going farther was not an option. Her feet wouldn’t move.
Across the yard, two of the men stood with arms folded, watching the brutality. They’d tied Samuel to a tree, arms above his head. His shirt lay in a blue heap on the dirt. The fabric was probably still warm from his body, still smelling of a day spent in the woods, of pine and smoke and strength.
The bearded man reared back. His arm snapped forward. The whip uncoiled, slicing through the air faster than her eyes could follow. By the time the leather thong returned to a standstill, a spray of red droplets had arced through the air and violated Samuel’s shirt—and another jagged line opened on his back, flesh split wide open.
Samuel took it silently. Letting the man rip long gashes into his skin. Draining his blood in weeping drips that soaked into his breeches.
Crack!
His body recoiled with each strike, yet he made no noise. Not a moan. No groans. Not even a cry. Was he breathing?
Hot tears ran down Eleanor’s cheeks. For an instant, she stood helpless, great sobs roaming in her chest, flinching with each sickening blow.
Then she cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. Gunpowder exploded.
The shot fell short, yards from where the men stood. One of them smiled. The other stalked toward her.
But the one she really wanted to stop whaled another wicked blow onto Samuel’s back, more brutal than any of the previous strikes. The whip fell to the ground like a black snake.
“Leave the woman be. I’m done,” the bearded man ordered. “Untie him.”
Eleanor pressed a knuckle to her mouth. Hard. Pinching the tender skin between bone and teeth, unable to move away but unwilling to move any closer. Yet.
Once the rope was loosened, Samuel dropped to his knees and tipped forward, his shoulder catching against the tree. The bearded man laughed as he coiled up the rope. One of the others stomped on Samuel’s shirt as he headed for his horse.
Eleanor’s heart lurched, and she dashed down the stairs.
The bushy-bearded man wheeled about, and when his gaze snagged on her, he stalked forward, coiling up the whip as he came. Odd twitches jerked the sides of his mouth. He reached out a hand. “Don’t cry, Mariah. Come home with me.”
She backed up a step, her blood turning cold. She’d visited Bedlam once, forced to accompany a countess and her charge. This was the same glassy stare she’d witnessed there, pupils pinpoints on a white canvas.
“I am not Mariah.” The calmness she forced into her voice mixed with her own mad cry, and the words came out ragged.
A wave rippled across his face, starting at the jaw and working its way upward, until his brow lifted in understanding. “No, you aren’t, are you? But that don’t mean you can’t leave with me. My offer stands.”
Was this country made up of nothing but lunatics and ruffians? She clutched her skirt, prepared to run back to the cabin and lock the door. “No thank you.”
“We’re done here, McDivitt.” The largest of the men dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and tore off down the road, twilight’s shadows swallowing him. The other man followed, the white horse tied to his mount and trotting behind.
The bearded man’s gaze swept over her from head to toe.
She held her breath. Why hadn’t she thought to grab more shots?
But then he turned and loped to his horse. He swung up into the saddle, the whip crossing at an angle over his chest like Samuel wore his rifle strap.
She waited until his horse pounded down the road; then she darted over to Samuel and sank to her knees beside him. “Samuel?”
Blood dripped down his back. His chest heaved. His voice was a whisper. “Help—” He sucked in a breath. “Help me inside.”
His big arm landed on her shoulder, and she hefted upward with all her strength. He rose to his feet with a grunt, leaning on her.
“I am so, so sorry.”
“Don’t … take in … stray animals.” Every word cost him, his voice growing thinner. Tighter. Heat poured off him, and her gown stuck to the sweat and blood on his skin.
The last flare of sunlight dazzled between the trees, painting his face in orange light. His usual swath of hair was plastered against his damp skin, revealing ruined flesh from temple to jaw, puckery, as if it’d been melted and reshaped on his cheekbone by a rough hand.
She sucked in her own breath. How much suffering could one man take?
L
ife always came down to a choice between dark and light. Blackness promised oblivion and relief, but oh, Lord … that was a lie. Samuel had learned that a long time ago. So he forced open his eyes to brightness and blinked from the shocking contrast.
“You are awake!”
Fabric rustled. A whiff of wood-fire and sunshine, sweet and surprisingly musky, feathered over half his face—the half not mashed against a pillow.
“Aye.” His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat.
He blinked again. This time, the world shifted into focus like the turn of a great kaleidoscope. Worried blue eyes, flecked with golden sparkles, stared into his. Afternoon sun—ever brightest in the west-facing cabin—set Red Bird’s hair aflame. He should’ve been up hours ago.
He shifted his head on the pillow. “Must’ve been a rough night.”
“It has been two.”
“Two?” Lord, have mercy. What kind of man lolled about in bed for days? He shoved up—then cried out as fire sliced from his shoulders to the small of his back. He dropped onto the straw tick with a groan. Blast that McDivitt! The good-for-nothing … hold on.
Straw tick?
He pushed to his elbows, slowly this time, like Ezekiel’s dry bones coming to life. Sure enough, he lay on the bed usually occupied by Red Bird. She knelt next to the frame, close enough that he could count the pale freckles romping over the bridge of her nose. Any closer and she’d be lying next to him.
Despite the searing pain raging in his muscles, laughter begged to be released, and he chuckled until he winced. What a tale this would make for Inoli. With a little embellishment, he could stop the teasing from his friend.
“Mr. Heath! Please, do not overtax yourself.” A nattering wren couldn’t have scolded any better. “You have suffered a severe beating. There is nothing humorous about this.”
“Ahh …” Again with the
Mr. Heath
? He was certain she’d called him otherwise earlier. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he struggled to sit and swing his legs over the side of the bed. Fresh agony burned along each gash. He waited until the room stopped spinning and he saw only one red-headed woman—not two—eyeing him as if he were a lunatic.
“But you see, Tatsu’hwa, I got to sleep in your bed.” He winked at her, followed by a grunt. Sweet white-clouded heavens! Even his face hurt.
The woman’s cheeks turned scarlet as she rose to her feet. “The bed is not mine, sir. It was yours to begin with.”
He’d snort—if the movement wouldn’t hurt so much. “Life needn’t be so serious.”
“But this is serious!” Her hands clasped together in front of her, her fingers laced so that her knuckles were white islands in a sea of red. “You almost died because of me, and I am so,
so
sorry. About everything. I had no idea feeding a stray horse was against the law.”
This time the snort would not be denied—and he paid for it with a stabbing slice across his shoulder blades. Once he caught his breath, he lifted his face to hers. “This wasn’t about the law, the horse, or even you, so stop blaming yourself.”
Fine, white teeth worked her lower lip as she digested his words. “Then … it is about that man, McDivitt, is it not? There is a quarrel between the two of you, I think. Why?”
“McDivitt is a greedy bloodsucker who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants—and what he wants is anything I’ve got.” Had he spoken this of anyone else, a twinge of guilt would’ve spiked his gut, for it would’ve been slander. But in McDivitt’s case, he spoke true. The man was as wily as a creek gorge during the spring melt.
“He is not right in the head, is he?” A slight ripple worked its way down to the hem of Red Bird’s skirt as if her knees shook.
He frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“He mistook me for someone else, but it seemed more than a simple mistake.” A shadow crossed her face, though the afternoon sun blazed unhindered through the window. “It was like … like he really thought I was her.”
He gripped the edge of the bedframe. Would this never end? “Let me guess. He thought you were Mariah?”
“Yes.” Her gaze snapped to his. “Who is she?”
The question ripped into him like the tip of the whip. How to answer that? She’d been his bane, his sorrow, his mistake—
His wife.
He shot to his feet. Night fell hard. So did he.
“Samuel!”
Chest heaving, he fought once again to stay in the light. A groan scraped out his throat, and he clung to the bedframe with shaky arms, forcing himself to remain upright.
Red Bird dropped to her knees before him, resting a light touch on his knee with her fingertips. “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”
The waves of pain eventually ebbed, and he met her gaze. “Lend me a hand.”
“Surely you are not thinking of standing?”
“The sooner I move, woman, the sooner I heal.” He lifted a brow at her. “And the sooner you’ll get your bed back.”
She set her jaw.
He stared her down.
“Very well.” She sat next to him, her sigh a reproach. “Put your arm on my shoulder, and we shall both stand on the count of three. Ready?”
“Aye.”
“One. Two. Three.”
His head floated, and he wobbled, but at least the room didn’t spin. Red Bird’s small frame pressed against his, shoring him up. He took a step, then another. Soon, the worst of his pain stemmed from the woman’s arm digging into the small of his back where she supported him. He unwound his arm from her shoulder.
But she didn’t let go.
“I’m fine, Tatsu’hwa,” he ground out. “Let go.”
She hesitated. “Are you certain?”
“Have you ever heard me say anything I wasn’t sure of?”
Her brow creased—but she stepped aside.
He hobbled to the door, his steps slowing as he passed Grace’s crib. She slept with her feet hitting one end and her head the other. He’d have to build the girl her own bed soon.
Outside, the fragrance of tangy pine floated warm on the afternoon breeze. He leaned against the porch post, filling his lungs with the sweetness, but his lips twisted into a sour pucker. Across the yard, a few gashes marred a pine where the whip had missed its mark. McDivitt had planned that ambush with the skill of a wildcat. He must’ve been prowling about, just waiting to spring when the time was right. Dirty son of a jackanapes.
The scuff of wood on wood pulled him from his thoughts. He turned. Red Bird hauled a barrel across the porch to his side.
“You ought to sit.” Her tone brooked no argument, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Thankful for her compassion? Or irritated she told him what to do?
He grunted—but eased himself down.
She swooped in front of him. “Shall I get you a drink? Are you hungry? Maybe you ought to—”
Irritation won out. “Stop flapping about like a mother hen. And for heaven’s sake quit looking at me as if I’m about to break. I’ve seen worse.”
“I—I only meant to help.” Her shoulders slumped as if he’d been the one to brandish a whip against her. She spun toward the door, her skirts a’twirl around her legs. “I should see to supper.”
He stifled a groan—but not from his pain. That he’d hurt her was evident. That it bothered him was a surprise. Crossroads were a notorious danger, and the intersection he now stood at could cost him his heart depending on which direction he chose.