Dropping her rifle, she surged up from the floor, tearing out the door before either man thought to stop her. The glare of torchlight illuminated the loose whip of her bright hair and flutter of her gown. They couldn’t mistake her for Reeve or Dodge or perceive her empty hands as a threat. Counting on that, knowing Tyler would never allow any harm to come to her, Patrice gambled all in a frantic race toward the flaming barn. She heard Reeve shouting after her but trained all her energy on the open stable door. A horrible red flare shone from inside. Stumbling in the twist of her heavy unhooped skirts, she almost fell. That’s when she felt a stinging slap to the side of her face, the shock of it making her stagger. Hearing Zeus’s maddened whinnies, she struggled onward, dragging her hem and petticoat up off the ground so they wouldn’t slow her.
“The sons of bitches are shooting at her,” Reeve cried out in dismay. The picture of his own mother’s death defending those stables shot through his mind. He stuffed rounds into his rifle’s hot chamber, readying to go to her aid, bringing hellfire with him. Dodge pushed by him, shouting, “I’ll get her. Cover me.”
“Dodge, wait!” Frantically, he crammed in the shells as he watched his friend duck and weave through what was left of the ornamental shrubbery, knowing the bastards would be waiting, watching for such a brazen move.
Patrice reached the stables, disappearing inside the blaze, out of the line of fire but darting headlong into a new danger.
Dodge was almost there, running hard, sending off a scattering of shots from pistols in both hands.
Reeve never knew who was responsible for the single bullet that plowed into Hamilton Dodge’s back, knocking him forward and off his feet. The guns went flying from his hands as he fell unchecked, skidding face first in the dirt to a motionless stop.
The sight took Reeve square in the chest with the force of a DuPont load. He stumbled back, wobbling on boneless legs until the solid support of the wall braced behind him. He leaned into the heated barrel of his Spencer, eyes squeezing out the horror as a name formed soundlessly on his lips.
Dodge … No
!
Crouching low, Ray Dermont ran to where the fallen man lay, ruthlessly kicking him over onto his back. Dodge’s head lolled loosely as Dermont’s shotgun barrel pressed against his throat.
“He’s still breathin’, Garrett! Step out or he’s finished!”
Reeve hesitated. He’d seen the bullet rip into Dodge’s lower back. But if there was a chance, even a thread of one …
He threw his rifle out the open door and strode onto the porch, hands lifted, as the hooded devils swarmed him.
Patrice heard nothing but the roar of flames consuming roof timbers and the agonizing scream of the horses. Her eyes teared into an immediate blur and breath clogged up in her lungs from searing smoke. She plunged ahead, feeling for the first in a row of stalls. Shoving open the panel, she charged on, coughing, gasping, throwing open the bolts and swinging the gates wide. Many of the animals were too terrified to flee, forcing her into the stall with the mass of churning muscle and hooves to wave and slap the mares in the right direction. One of the crazed beasts swung about in the small space, catching her a glancing blow to the chest with its powerful hindquarters. Winded, she felt herself going down in a swoon, sure she would be pulped beneath the stomping feet. Then, miraculously, the mare bolted out of the stall, galloping after the others to freedom. She found her balance clinging to a rail as hot ash filtered down on her face and scorched through her lungs. That left only Zeus.
A tremendous rush of sound exploded from the rear of the flaming building as the hay went up with the velocity of a steam train. Patrice fell to her knees, blackness swirling over her senses. From some distant spot in the roar of confusion, she heard Zeus’s trumpeting call. Reeve’s pride and joy.
Trapped in its stall while the fires of hell caved in all around.
Crawling, scrambling, she managed to find the main aisleway. She heard wood splintering, not from above but from straight ahead, as the stallion’s hooves shattered through the slats of its stall door. She felt the huge animal bump past her and flailed out with her hands, grasping, twisting them in a hank of mane. One of the red-hot ceiling joists came crashing down, landing on the hem of her dress, threatening her precarious hold.
“Zeus, go!” The words croaked up through her charred throat, enough to send the big horse surging forward, dragging her, her skirt in flames, out into the cool evening. The last thing she remembered was a streak of heat boiling up the back of her calves before darkness swallowed her.
The chill of water sluicing over her face and trickling into her mouth, brought Patrice up with a sputtering cough.
“Easy, darlin’. Jus’ lie back now. You’ll be all right.”
Recognizing the thick drawl, she tried to drag her eyelids open, but they were too burned by smoke to focus. The dredging of a wet cloth across them granted some relief. She could make out Tyler’s smiling face, but the concern in his dark jade gaze confused her. So did the fact that it was evening and she was on the ground, propped up against his knees. He continued to bathe her face and neck with gentle strokes, never looking away from her even as some commotion played out behind them.
“Ty-ler?” His name clawed up through the pain in her throat, wrenching out another spasm of
coughing. He caught her uplifted hand in his to press a firm kiss upon it.
“It’s all right, darlin’. Don’t fret. I’m here.”
Patrice looked at his hand, puzzled by the blistering redness of his palm and forearm. Burns? “What—?”
“Your dress was on fire, darlin’.”
And he’d smothered the flames with his hands.
Awareness sucked the fragile breath from her. She struggled to sit up within the protective curl of Tyler’s arms, panic stealing her air and almost her consciousness.
“Reeve—”
She fought, climbed, scratched her way practically over the top of Tyler to gain her feet then, was dependent upon him to keep her there as her system suffered another jolting shock.
Reeve on his knees, face in the dirt, as his wrists were lashed behind him. Dodge sprawled a short distance away, his head averted, a pool of crimson seeping out from under him.
“Oh, Dodge.” She tried to gulp back a knot of emotion too big to force down. Faintness lapped up over her senses in soothing waves, as welcome as Tyler’s unwavering support. The desire to succumb to both engulfed her as she buried her face in handfuls of Tyler’s shirt. His hand covered her hair, holding her fast against him.
Reeve grunted as his arms were jerked up high behind his back. He let himself be manhandled, not resisting the burn of the ropes, the thud of boots against his ribs. Nothing could have beaten him down more than the thought of Dodge dying for him, except the sight of Patrice clinging to Tyler in tears.
When he’d seen Zeus drag her out of the blazing stables just seconds before its collapse, it was reward enough for any sacrifice to come. A large section of her skirt had been consumed by fire. The stench of fabric, hers and flesh, Tyler’s, hung sickly sweet in the air upon choking threads of smoke and charred wood. A gash along her cheekbone oozed only slightly now. She was grimy and weary but alive. Thanks to Tyler, his friend and foe. She would be safe. Nothing else mattered. He had no curiosity over his own fate.
“String him up.”
Ray Dermont’s vicious growl woke Patrice from her misery. She pushed against the pressure of Tyler’s hand to see what was happening. They were going to hang Reeve from the proud entrance to Glendower Glade.
Seeing the glaze of understanding on her face, Reeve looked to Tyler. “Get her out of here.” His harsh demand won a small nod as Reeve was hauled up to his feet and shoved toward the porch, where the youngest Dermont tested the noose to make sure it would hold his weight. It wasn’t a long drop off the cement edge, not enough to ensure a clean snap instead of a slow strangle. Reeve walked, clinging to the memory of Jonah’s courage.
“Reeve!”
He winced at her raspy cry. Why didn’t Tyler get her away?
Tyler tried, but her fright was quickly replaced by fury.
“Let me go!” She struck at him, slapping his face, pounding on his chest, battering him with her curses and desperate tears. He wouldn’t relent.
“Don’t, darlin’. You can’t stop it now. Neither can I.”
“Liar! Coward! Let go! I’ll hate you forever for this!”
He believed her. She could see the pain of it in his eyes. But it was nothing compared to the agony in her heart.
On the ground, away from the wash of torchlight, fingers twitched in the dirt, hand rolling, pushing toward a discarded revolver. Brushing the smooth grip. Stretching with every last bit of energy.
“Forget it, Yank.”
A heavy boot trod down on Dodge’s palm, ending his effort.
Watching them angle Reeve under the swaying rope, Patrice clutched at the arm Tyler braced across her chest, her fingers biting deep, her body trembling. Hysteria threatened. Desperate, wailing pleas for mercy clamped behind her quivering jaw. She sought Reeve’s gaze, locking on to it for strength, for the will to survive even if he wouldn’t.
The panic fell away. The need for sobs and begging faded. How Reeve would hate that for a last tribute. What could she give him to carry to eternity?
Her voice rang out strong and clear and unashamed.
“I love you, Reeve Garrett. I would have been proud to be your wife.”
Just before Ray Dermont pulled his hood down over Reeve’s head, Patrice caught a glimpse of his small smile. Then he was masked to shield the murderers from his condemning glare. The rope dropped into place and was fitted tight about his neck.
“Don’t look,” Tyler mumbled, trying to force her gaze away.
She glared at him. “You look. You take a good look at what you’ve done.”
She let him press her face into his shoulder as she tensed, listening for the snap of the rope going taut. Tyler ducked his head next to hers, soft words whispering under his breath.
“I’m sorry, Reeve. Forgive me.”
Never! Never
, she promised, clinging to him with eyes tightly closed to all but the image of Reeve’s brief smile.
“Cut him loose,” came a cold command, “or you’ll be dead before he is.”
Patrice’s head flew up. Her cry quavered with weak relief.
“Deacon!”
Her brother sat his horse with the deadly end of his rifle fixed on Ray Dermont. Next to him was Jericho Smith, mounted on the wheezing pony, just as well armed and dangerous. Not overwhelming odds, but enough to take cowards aback. Killing Reeve Garrett and his Yankee friend was one matter. Taking shots at Deacon Sinclair was another. And none of them doubted his willingness to shoot them dead with the slightest provocation.
Seeing everything going to hell, Tyler stepped back from Patrice, keeping his crisped hands empty. Instead of going to Deacon, Patrice ran toward the porch.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sinclair?” Dermont growled as Patrice shoved by him to reach Reeve.
“Putting an end to this insanity. The blood on my
hands will never come clean. No more. Do you understand? No more.”
Patrice slipped the knot loose and tossed the noose away. She yanked off the hood and had her mouth fixed upon Reeve’s for a long fierce second before turning her attention to the binding on his wrists. The instant he was free, he was off the porch, racing toward Dodge.
“But you’re letting a murderer go loose,” Dermont railed, gesturing at Reeve. “He killed Jonah Glendower, his own brother! And he murdered his father! We jus’ gonna let him get away with those things?” He reached for his pistol, but Deacon’s icy stare froze him in place.
“Byron Glendower told my mother that he had a bad heart. The doctor had been treating him for it since before the war. And as for Jonah—” Deacon broke off, his gaze flickering to Patrice, then back. “Garrett didn’t kill him. I’m responsible.”
Patrice drew up, posture rigid, grimy features pale as she stared at her brother in tragic disbelief. Deacon didn’t pause.
“Jonah was shot by firing squad because he wouldn’t give me up to them. He knew I was the one spying on Federal troops. When they got too close to finding out, he confessed to it so I wouldn’t be arrested. I let him die for me because the information I was carrying had to get through to Richmond. His blood is on my hands, not Reeve’s. Mine.”
Stock-still, Patrice met his gaze for a moment longer, then she turned away to follow Reeve.
Deacon gestured to the vigilantes with his rifle barrel. “Now get the hell out of here. Go haunt some other house.”
“You’re gonna regret this, Sinclair,” Dermont promised as he bent to snatch up his mask and retrieve the rope that had failed to accomplish its purpose.
“I already do.”
While the night riders gathered their wounded and dead, making fierce promises of retribution toward both men on horseback, Reeve knelt beside his fallen friend. He took up the hand marked with a dirty bootprint, curling it in his own.
“Dammit, Dodge, you said you wouldn’t take a bullet for me.”
“Not for you.”
The faint whisper surprised both him and Patrice as she knelt behind him. Dodge’s eyes fluttered open, touching vaguely on Reeve then holding on Patrice.
“For her,” he murmured, following the claim with a wink. A sob caught in Patrice’s throat. His breathing suddenly quickened into shallow gasps. Fingers clenched about Reeve’s as his head tossed side to side restlessly until Reeve placed his other hand on Dodge’s sweat-dappled brow to still the movement.
“Dodge? Dodge! Don’t you dare die on me. Don’t you dare. Get a doctor!” Reeve looked up, expression stark, desperate.
“I heard tell that Doc Anderson was up and around again,” Jericho offered. “I’ll go fetch him, Mista Reeve.”
Reeve nodded. “Take Zeus.”
Jericho blinked, startled by the command, by the degree of trust. “Yessir.”
Dodge crushed Reeve’s hand, drawing him down closer. “No. No doctor.”
“You’re going to make it, Dodge. I swear to God.”