Authors: Charlene Weir
In the flickering firelight, beads of sweat glistened on his sallow face. His attention was wandering.
“Listen,” she said sharply to bring him back. “Get on the horse.”
“No. Asinine. Go.” The effort it caused him to say the three words left him breathless.
“Do it!” She knelt beside him, put his uninjured arm around her shoulder and struggled to help him to his feet. He managed to get up on the bale and tried to put a leg over the broad back.
“No,” he said. “Youâ”
“Shut up!” Roughly, she jerked up his foot and shoved his leg over the mare, boosted on his rear to get him astride.
Buttermilk flicked her ears and rippled the muscles along her shoulder. Flames roared through the hayloft with the noise of a freight train. A burning timber fell with a crash. Smoke poured around them.
She twisted Buttermilk's mane through Parkhurst's fingers. “Stay awake for the next few minutes. And hang on.”
She scrambled up behind him, put her arms around him and gripped the reins and the mane in both hands.
Was Jack waiting?
One side of the loft fell with a thundering crack. Fire shot up all around them. The heat was intense. Any moment the roof would come down.
She clapped her heels against Buttermilk's flanks. The mare clomped reluctantly to the open doorway, then stopped.
“Go!” Susan dug in her heels. Buttermilk snorted, tossed her head, pranced sideways and backed into the roaring fire.
Susan yelled. The mare jumped forward and burst through the door in a bone-jarring trot. Her hooves clattered on the gravel. Susan urged her faster. Buttermilk stopped. “Move, you stupid nag!” She kicked hard.
A rifle shot whistled past her ear and grazed the horse's rump. With a scream of panic, Buttermilk broke into a gallop. The rifle cracked again as they lumbered across an empty field. Parkhurst bounced and swayed. Her arms ached with the effort to keep him from falling.
Buttermilk stumbled across a shallow ditch and headed up a hill. Above the roar and crackle of the fire, Susan heard the sound of a car engine. Some seconds later, headlights made erratic sweeps through the gray light as Jack's car jounced over the uneven ground behind them.
Their only hope was the woods, and she kicked the old mare faster down the slope. Parkhurst started to slip. She took one hand from the reins and fastened it on his belt. What was this doing to his injuries?
Buttermilk, lathered in sweat, was tiring and blowing hard as she pounded toward the trees. She slowed of her own accord when Susan tried to guide her through trees and around wild tangles of brush. Susan's arms trembled with strain. She couldn't hold onto Parkhurst much longer.
The gray dawn light didn't penetrate the thick trees, and Jack couldn't yet be right on their tail. She spotted an odd-shaped boulder; flat on top, one side slanting sharply in. A fallen tree lay across it, creating a makeshift cave.
Stopping the mare, she slid off, then did no more than break Parkhurst's fall as he tumbled. From the look of him, he was nearly unconscious: eyes glazed, face ashen. She staggered under his weight, pushed and prodded him into the space between the rock and the tree trunk.
“Don't move. I'll get help.”
He pressed cold fingers against her hand. “Be careful.”
She nodded, shoved tumbleweeds around the opening and across the fallen tree to hide him. Jack had to be lured far away from this spot and then disposed of. She scrambled back on the mare.
As quickly as possible, she wound through the trees, with no idea where Jack was. He had to track them on foot and he might be uncertain which direction they'd taken. She saw no sign of him and heard no sounds of movement through the brush.
Did she have to wave flags and send up flares to get his attention? A rifle shot cracked around her. Buttermilk lunged to a gallop. Susan ducked and dodged to avoid raking branches and glanced over her shoulder. The mare swerved against a tree trunk, smacked Susan's knee and scraped her off.
She sprawled in dead leaves and broken branches, rolled to her stomach and wriggled into the low brush. Sprigs snagged her jacket and scratched her face. In the center she found a hollow area, trampled flat for a bed by some small animal. There was barely enough room for her to sit hunched over bent knees. Long thorns pricked her skin through the jacket.
With her forehead resting on her knees, she drew in deep breaths. She heard thrashing sounds, jerked her head up and froze like a wild animal aware of a predator. She tried to see through the thorny bush and could only make out small patches of pale light. Somewhere Buttermilk snorted and then Jack grunted with satisfaction. The riderless mare told him Susan had to be nearby. The thrashing sounds continued; she couldn't tell how far away he was, only the direction he seemed to be moving.
She waited. The lacy frost on the branches melted into crystal beads that rolled down the sprigs and dropped with tiny pit-pats. Her back ached, her muscles cramped. She inched out through thorns just far enough to see. Dark clouds seemed to rest on the treetops; here and there long rays of the rising sun filtered through the dark masses, slanted across the shallow hills and highlighted large boulders. The entire landscape was in dull colors of winter, shades of brown and beige and gray. Trails of smoke drifted like fog.
Her eyes caught movement and she barely glimpsed Jack, brown pants and tweed jacket in harmony with the background. She pulled the .38 from her pocket. It was time to stop being the hunted and start being the hunter.
She scuttled across the clearing and crouched behind a tree. Birds twittered in the branches. With the longer range and greater accuracy of the rifle, he had a definite advantage. He'd want to keep a safe distance and shoot at the first opportunity. With only a handgun, she needed to get within twenty-five yards to be certain of success; closer would be better. More daylight made her more easily visible but would help her avoid nests of crackly leaves, twigs that could snap or rocks that might roll and have her flailing instinctively for balance.
Carefully, she worked through low brush and the patches of frozen snow hidden in the densest areas, in the direction he'd gone.
After what seemed like hours and might have been thirty minutes, she heard him ahead, crashing through the underbrush and breathing hard from the effort. Her lungs craved deep breaths also, but she didn't dare give in, even under cover of his noise.
She stopped behind the trunk of a huge cottonwood tree to wait, get her breathing under control. She felt light-headed. Cold breezes brushed her face. On a limb above, a squirrel, incensed at her trespass, scolded her with furious chatter, trembled with indignation and then with a final flick of his tail scampered off.
Everything was quiet; no sounds. Alarmed, she risked a look around the tree trunk. Forty yards away, she spotted Jack, tweed jacket blending in with the brush. She raised the gun, fired and knew she'd missed. He was too far away.
He dropped without a sound and crawled into the brush. “It's all gone wrong,” he yelled, his voice thick with an anguish that burbled in his throat like blood. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt. He said it would be easy.”
She didn't respond, but watched the bushes thrashing and jiggling and wondered if he was distracted enough to allow her to cross an open area. She'd be vulnerable for only about two seconds. Taking a breath, she darted out. A bullet whacked into the tree behind her. She slithered into brush and waited, face in the dirt.
“I'm sorry,” he called. “I have to. You knewâwhen I said âcherry pie.'”
She crawled along a small, twisting path, probably an animal track, inside the tangle of growth. The air was heavy with the odors of earth, damp vegetation, rotting wood and tree sap. Over the rustling and crackling of her progress, she heard the sound of running water; a stream somewhere nearby. She fought her way to the edges of the brush and came on another open space. Just beyond was a ravine, a narrow groove that started out shallow, then dropped sharply and curved in a half-circle. If she could get to it, it might take her around behind him.
She started to inch out; her sleeve caught a twig and snapped it with a sharp crack. Dammit! In a half-crouch, she scuttled to the cleft, and a bullet thwacked into the dirt at the rim. Fighting for breath, she moved into the deep part of the ravine on shaky legs.
“He killed Lucille,” Jack yelled. “He swore he didn't, but I know he did. She knew.”
If she'd had it in her, Susan might have felt some sympathy for Jack. He was a young man struggling in the shadow of a powerful father. He'd qualified in a profession of his own and should have achieved success and recognition, but he'd fallen under the sway of someone stronger and unprincipled. They had murdered Daniel and now he'd shot Parkhurst and meant to kill her. She felt no sympathy; all she wanted was to put a bullet through him.
Long before it gained her the advantage she needed, the ravine began to shallow out, the bottom rising easily to meet the lip covered with overhanging brush. She'd dropped into a neat little trap and all he had to do was pick her off when she poked out her head. Was he waiting at this end? Or at the other end, where she'd been careless enough to snap a twig?
The sun was higher in the sky and each passing moment gave him more daylight. She found a rock the size of a baseball and threw it as hard and as far as she could back down the ravine. It thunked into the frozen dirt.
The rifle cracked, deafeningly close.
Oh Christ, he was right above her. She went up, fast, over the lip and caught a glimpse of him, braced against a tree with the rifle pointed away from her. With incredible speed, the barrel swung toward her and he fired.
She plunged into brush, moving low and quick, with no thought for the branches snatching her clothing and scratching her face. When she broke through into the open, her foot landed on a rock. It rolled, and her ankle twisted. She fell hard and tumbled down a stream bank. The .38 was torn from her hand. She heard it plop into the stream. She came to a stop at the edge of the water, scrambled to her feet and pressed her back into the wall of the bank. She waited for Jack to appear. Nothing happened. Far above, a hawk, wings outstretched, floated on an air current, circled and then disappeared.
She sidled along the bank and her boots squished through partially frozen mud. The stream had chunks of ice floating in the grayish-white water. At a narrow section, she tried to leap across, splashed in the water and smashed painfully into the bank on the far side.
Scrabbling at the stunted growth, she managed to pull herself up the bank. She found a boulder surrounded by brush to hide in. Her heart hammered away at her ribs and the gulps of cold air hurt her lungs. She wasn't very well hidden and the light might now be good enough for Jack to notice the damage she'd made crawling in.
The edge of the woods was near; through the trees she could see an open field, and Buttermilk, head down, nibbling at dead grasses. She felt a small ray of hope. When all else fails, turn tail and run. The only little problem was getting to the mare before Jack shot her. With great effort, she wriggled out of the brush and plodded through the sparse trees.
Her legs were leaden, her head light, and she was so beaten with exhaustion, she wanted to sink to her knees and wait for a bullet in the back. Her only consolation was that she'd at least led him a long distance from Parkhurst. With any luck, the smoke would be noticed and help would come before Jack could find him.
She heard a splash as Jack tried to clear the stream, then sounds of him climbing up the bank, and felt a rush of anger. She was sick and tired of being chased and shot at. She snatched a fallen tree limb, sturdy, three feet long, two inches thick with a forked end, and ran toward the stream.
When Jack came over the rim of the bank, he held the rifle, barrel pointed up, in front of him. She swung the limb with an explosion of all the fury and hatred and fear within her. The forked end tore into his ear, raked across his forehead, smashed against the barrel and wrenched it from his hands. He gave a startled cry of pain, and she snarled with satisfaction.
The rifle skittered across dead leaves and landed somewhere to her left. She swung the limb again, but the vicious arc was too wide and he had time to jump back. He turned and dodged through trees, headed for the empty field.
She spent precious seconds locating the rifle, hung it by the webbed sling across her back, then ran heavy-footed toward Buttermilk. The mare lifted her head, snorted and sidled away, but Susan grabbed the reins and smacked the bony forehead. She swung astride and dug in her heels. Buttermilk set off in a heavy gallop, pounding hooves throwing up mud and grass. Cold wind tore at Susan's face.
Jack looked back over his shoulder, rubbed blood from his face and stumbled, then recovered and ran at an angle.
“Faster,” Susan yelled. Buttermilk, affected by her frenzy, lumbered straight at him. He zigzagged, but Susan kept the mare on his heels and gained ground with each stride. When she was almost on top of him, the mare tried to swerve, but Susan yanked her back and, unable to stop, Buttermilk crashed into him and knocked him down. She trampled his hand as she ran on.
Susan slid off, hit the ground with jarring impact and brought the rifle around. Jack, face bloody, sat with his knees bent, cradling his injured hand against his chest.
“You killed Daniel.” She felt quite calm as she pointed the barrel at his head.
“No.”
“You killed him.” Her finger curled around the trigger.
“I didn't.”
“You bastard! You shot him.” Her finger tightened.
“Brenner shot him,” Jack said in a tired, distant voice.
She watched his eyes and saw in them the knowledge that she was going to kill him. A split instant before the rifle fired, she shifted the barrel and the shot went wide.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“SO you found who killed your man.” Sophie, propped up in the hospital bed, still looked white and frail, but the bandages, at a jaunty angle on her head, gave her the air of an aged rake. “An eye for an eye.”