He let her tears fall for far too long.
But if she needed it, he needed to give it to her.
After a long stretch of time, his chest was still so wet he could not rightly tell if her tears had ceased.
“Cass?”
She nodded into his chest, not lifting her face to him.
“Ashita died, yes, but you need to know that I asked the washwoman about what happened to the boy. That was how you got so far away from me—I thought you were just outside the tent.”
Her head whipped up, her chin jutting into his breastbone. The tears had dried, and now her red-rimmed eyes were wide. “The boy? He is alive?”
“Yes. Or at least he was the last time she had seen him.”
“Is he here? We have to find him.” She started to move, pushing at Rorrick with weak limbs to untangle herself.
“Cass, stop.” He locked his arms around her, stilling her motions. “He’s not in Widow’s Creek any longer, and where he’s at we can’t get to until this storm lets up and we have daylight. Not to mention dry clothes.”
“Where is he?”
“The owner of the Folgart Mine took him about six months ago. The boy had been scrounging around town since his mother died. And then Folgart took him last time he was through. The boy is an orphan, so none in the town objected.”
“Why would this Folgart man take him?”
Rorrick sighed, his chest lifting her. “There are oftentimes very narrow corridors in these mines. Space only large enough for children or small women.”
“He needs the boy for his mine?”
Rorrick nodded. For a second, he hedged on his next words, wanting to shield her from the truth. But he couldn’t allow her to hold onto too much hope.
It was her nature—hope—always holding onto too much of it—and now was not the time for it. “You need to know, Cass, Folgart is a bastard. I’ve dealt with him before. I don’t know if we will find the boy there after this much time.”
Her voice caught. “Because he will have died?”
“Or escaped Folgart’s clutches—if he was lucky and smart—that’s what I would hope for.”
She exhaled, the slightest spark coming to life in her defeated eyes. “Then we will go to this mine next. I failed his mother—I cannot fail the boy if he is alive.”
His right cheek lifted in a half smile as he drew his left hand up to trace the brow line of her hair across her forehead. “I figured you would say that, Foxfire.” His thumb dropped, following along the edge of her temple, her skin still damp from her tears.
Her honey-brown eyes searched his face. “You came after me into the cold, Rorrick.”
“Yes.”
Her look dipped away for a second before lifting to him. The intensity in the dark flecks of amber in her irises was mesmerizing. “You are the first man to ever do so.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Belief does not make reality.”
He exhaled a scoff. “You would have a thousand men coming after you, Cass, if only you would let them.”
She paused, her look piercing him. “Yet, I only want one.”
She stretched against his hold on her backside, moving upward.
He couldn’t let her shift against his body much more without complete collapse of his moral restraint.
She wriggled upward, her lips searching for his.
This he could allow. This one kiss. Nothing more, for she was still far too vulnerable, too raw, too weak from the cold.
Her lips landed on his, the sweet swell of her skin, of her tongue, forging battle against every last shred of his will power.
She pulled away, sinking back down to his chest, curling into his warmth.
Her shivers had ceased, and he could feel her muscles relax—finally, thankfully—on top of him.
But all of that did nothing to stop his throbbing cock from straining for her body. Nothing to stop the images of flipping them over—driving into her, her body arching with abandon under him as it had last night by the fire—from flashing in his mind.
He clamped down on his unruly brain, his rebellious groin, willing them into submission.
Cass needed nothing more than sleep in this moment, and sleep she would get.
Nothing more.
He shifted slightly under her, muting the groan that came with the movement.
He would be rewarded in heaven one day for this moment in time.
He was sure of it.
{ Chapter 13 }
The sense of horror that had sunk deep into her chest hours ago didn’t ease as Cass set her hands on Rorrick’s shoulders. She loosened her boot from her stirrup as he wrapped his hands around her waist and then lifted her from the sidesaddle to the ground.
They had lost a day between making their way back to Widow’s Creek and then having to procure dry clothes from the madam that ran the upstairs brothel of the Torry Saloon.
Rorrick had said it had taken extra charm to convince the woman to part with the carriage dress—the only reasonably sedate dress that wasn’t in rags in the town. Cass wondered at what the description “extra charm” meant, but Rorrick would only grin at her continued questions on the matter.
So Cass had had to suffer riding through the mountains in layers of bright pink. But the carriage dress extended upward all the way to her breastbone, and for that, she was grateful. The only other dress that had been an option, a beastly concoction of bright, scratchy blue, had cut deep across her breasts, and that would not do with this chill. Plus, she took solace in the fact that with the bright pink, she would be easy for Rorrick to spot in the snow were she to get lost again.
As Rorrick set her to her feet into the snow next to her horse, he kept his hands in place at her waist, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Folgart watched us approach. I didn’t want to alarm him by keeping you on your saddle, which is where I prefer you—wary and ready for escape. So I don’t want you to leave your horse’s side. Do you understand me? Take your reins, take my reins, and you get out of here if there is even a hint of trouble. I will stay and handle it. But I need you safe. All you need to do is follow the trail downward on the mountain, straight to the valley. Tell me you can do this, Cass.”
She pulled back, searching his face. His eyes had set hard, the lines of an ancient warrior manifesting in the angles of his face, his stone-set jaw. She had never imagined he held this within him—deadly power exuding with every breath that sent shivers down her spine. What else had Rorrick hidden in his depths, far away from her? His look alone scared her more than the portly man standing next to the entrance of the mine with a rifle pointed at them.
This was serious. Far more serious than Rorrick had originally let her believe in the cave. Or maybe she had been too cold to truly recognize the look in his eye when he had first talked of Folgart.
But she saw it now.
She nodded.
He inclined his head to her and then turned to Folgart, blocking Cass from Folgart’s view. He walked toward Folgart, his hands out wide and raised in innocence at his sides.
Cass moved to the right, reaching for the reins of her horse. Rorrick shifted to the right as he walked, once more blocking the direct path from her to Folgart.
“I come in peace, Folgart. I come with coin.”
Dressed only in a mud-stained white shirt, pants and suspenders, Folgart waved the barrel of his rifle at Rorrick. “I told ye never to show yer face here again, Trowlson.”
“I know, Folgart. Believe me, I know. I do not choose this. But we are here searching for someone.”
“Like ye were last time?”
“I did not know those boys had hidden in the wagon, Folgart.” Rorrick’s palms flicked upward to the sky, his voice calm. “I only found out once you came after them—I never suspected they were hidden in the sacks.”
“Still a liar.”
Rorrick slowly started to reach into an inner pocket. Folgart’s head dipped to the line of the barrel, setting his
aim.
Rorrick froze. “The coin I have should more than make up for your troubles.”
Folgart’s head lifted slightly from the rifle. “Ye cost me, boy. Ye cost me mightily. I had to find two new ones.”
Rorrick’s right hand moved again, slipping into his inner pocket. He pulled free a sack, the coins inside clicking. He held it up. “Gold, silver. More than those children ever would have extracted from the mine.”
Rorrick tossed the sack onto the ground between them, the snow softening the clattering of the coins.
For a long moment, Folgart stared at Rorrick. Stared at him with hatred and malice, a mottled red exploding onto his face with every heartbeat. His eyes narrowed at Rorrick, and then Folgart lifted his head from his rifle, taking five steps forward to the sack. He squatted, snatching the coins up from the ground.
With one eye trained on Rorrick, Folgart opened the sack and peeked inside. His eyes went wide for a quick second and then he looked to Rorrick, his black teeth protruding with a sneering smile.
“What are ye here fer, Trowlson?”
Rorrick took a full step forward, his arms still wide and nonthreatening. “Information. That is all. We are looking for a boy that we believe was here at your mine.”
“Why? He be worth somethin’ to ye?”
“We were looking for both the boy and his mother. His mother died in Widow’s Creek. It is thought you took the boy with you when you went through there six months ago. He had blond hair, seven years of age.”
“Six months ago, ye say?” Folgart shifted the gun to his side, the end of the barrel pointing to the ground as he slid the stock end under his armpit. He shook the bag of coins. “If I know yer ways, Trowlson, ye gots ya another sack in yer pocket just the same as this.”
Rorrick shrugged. “Maybe I do. It depends on what you have to tell me.”
The immediate threat of a bullet eased and Cass shuffled to her left for a more direct view of Folgart. Movement directly behind him, a shadow along the timber inside edge of the mine caught her eye.
She squinted, the reflection of the sun against the snow making it hard to see into the dark shadows.
The shadow moved again.
One—two figures—both small and both peering out along the rough vertical timbers on the right side of the mine’s opening. Both not only small, but filthy from head to toe.
Cass blinked, squinting harder. The shorter figure had blond hair under the mat of grime covering his head. The whites of their eyes were stark against the dirt covering their faces.
She gasped. “Rorrick.”
Rorrick glanced back over his shoulder to her and she inclined her head to the opening of the mine.
His look whipped around just as Folgart followed her gaze.
Folgart spun to the opening. “I told ye brats to stay in the mine.”
Both children jumped out of view.
Rorrick’s voice went deathly calm. “It does not look as though much has changed here, Folgart.”
Not blinking, his movements precise as he stared at Rorrick, Folgart tucked the sack into his waistband and lifted the barrel of his rifle at Rorrick.
“Ye ain’t comin onto my claim and judgin’ me, boy. Now it be time fer ye to leave.”
No, no, no.
Terror shot through Cass’s chest. They couldn’t leave. Not if that was the boy.
As much as it curdled her tongue to form the name, to willingly speak her long-held humiliation out loud, she opened her mouth, her voice loud and clear and ringing through the crystal strewn trees. “Percival?”
A bird squawked and then only silence followed the echo of the word along the mountain.
One bare foot appeared from the shadow of the mine.
A foot. A tattered rag-clad leg. A body. A boy.
A boy who knew his name.
The boy looked directly at her, the sunlight catching the stark green of his eyes.
A blow, straight to her belly, and Cass nearly doubled over.
Her husband’s eyes. She would know them anywhere. She had spent years looking at them. Wanting them. Being denied by them.
And there they were in his boy, looking at her in wonder, in curiosity.
In hope.
She stumbled toward the boy, the horse reins dropping from her hands.
“Cass.”
She heard Rorrick scream her name at the last second, an instant before the shot rang out.
Rorrick was already leaping through the air, shielding her from the tip of the barrel aimed directly at her.
His shoulder jerked back in midair, but he landed on his feet, his pistol already drawn. A mere second for aim—before Folgart could even think about reloading his rifle—and Rorrick shot him.
The bullet ripped into Folgart’s belly just as he pulled a knife from his boot. The force sent him backward, stumbling toward the opening of the mine. He dropped the rifle, but his grip on the knife was secure, his arm lifting to point the blade at the children.
“Percival, run.”
The boy glanced to his left, quickly holding his hand out to the other child in the shadows. Folgart’s swinging blade was almost to them.
“Percival.” Cass’s scream tore through the clearing.
The boy yanked on the other child’s hand and they jumped, running to the side of the mine far from Folgart and then straight out into the open—straight toward Cass.
A scream, gurgled, blood spewing, came from Folgart. He shifted his heavy momentum, rushing forward, coming at them.
Percival reached her and before his feet stopped, she grabbed him under the arms and swung him up onto her horse. She turned to the other child, not hesitating for a second before she lifted the child onto the rear of Rorrick’s horse. She spun back to her mare, grabbing the reins and hauling herself into the sidesaddle with Percival in front of her.
Between Folgart and the horses, Rorrick stood, a wall of defense, his second pistol trained on the bleeding man.
“Rorrick.” Cass whispered his name.
Without a glance behind him, Rorrick’s feet moved backward to the skittish horses. His arm remained high, the pistol not wavering.
Within seconds, Rorrick had swung himself up into the saddle, his glare and pistol still locked on Folgart.
Folgart tripped, falling forward, blood splattering against the white snow as he fell. The knife flew from his hand, far out of reach.
It was all Rorrick needed. He looked to Cass. “We leave now.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t answer him, could only nod, her hands already tugging on the reins.
~~~
It wasn’t until they were halfway to Rorrick’s cabin that Cass realized the other child riding on the back of Rorrick’s horse in front of her wasn’t a young boy like Percival.
She was a girl.
She sat small, clutching onto Rorrick’s back, the side of her face pressed into his black overcoat. Cass couldn’t quite tell how old she was—judging by the side of her face, she could be as young as ten or eleven, or as old as fourteen.
A tiny, tiny, tiny fourteen.
Both of the children were waifs, wispy slivers of bone and skin.
There had been no words thus far. Just stunned silence. Just moving swiftly through the trees.
Even Rorrick was quiet. Except for telling her they would be making a long push back to his cabin on a direct, little used route, he had been stoically silent, never looking back to her, not stopping, his focus solely on the trail ahead.
Unusual for him, for this was the exact situation he usually took command of, setting everyone at ease. The worry on Rorrick’s odd behavior piled upon her worry for the boy in front of her. Her arms wrapped around Percival as they rode, she could feel his bones jutting from his skin.
She had tucked her skirts over the boy’s bare feet, pulling her cloak forward around the two of them. At least she knew Percival was warm, if nothing else. Starving, but warm. While she didn’t want to imagine wha
t horrors he had endured at Folgart’s camp, the silent hours on the horse left her far too much time to do that very thing. To be consumed by it.
It wasn’t until darkness was falling and they were rounding the third to last bend to Rorrick’s cabin that she discovered the source of Rorrick’s continual silence.
The girl clutching onto Rorrick’s back twisted around to Cass, stark fear evident under the grime on her face. “Ma’am, yer man, he be bleeding. I think he been shot.”
The first thing Cass noted was the crystal clear voice the girl possessed. It struck her so oddly, a voice of the heavens, that it took Cass a full breath to realize what the girl actually said.
Cass jerked upright, sure she hadn’t heard correctly. “What?”
The girl pointed to the back of Rorrick’s shoulder. “He’s bleeding.”
Cass looked around frantically. She remembered this part of the trail. The cabin was just ahead.
“Rorrick?”
His horse plodded forward, but there was no answer.
“Rorrick?” Fear echoed deep in her voice.
No answer.
She nudged her horse forward. The mare resisted for the tightness of the trail, but Cass dug her heel in, and her horse moved forward, aligning next to his. “Rorrick?”
She looked at the side of his face. His eyes were closed, and hell, he was swaying.
“Rorrick.” She unwrapped the reins from her hand and reached over to him, shaking his arm.
It only made his swaying expand, his torso swinging in a wide circle.
“Ma’am, he’s gonna fall.”
Cass flipped her hand around to slide it under Rorrick’s upper arm and grip him, trying to stop the sway. His weight heavy, out of control against her grasp, she yanked on him as she tried to keep her horse in step and tight. “Fall toward me, Rorrick. To me—me—fall here.”
Her grip on his arm tightened, and with all her force she pulled. “Percival, move up.”
Percival scampered forward, almost onto the mare’s neck. Just in time, he cleared the space Rorrick fell into. Dead weight. His torso stretched awkwardly over the horn of her saddle as his legs remained entwined along his horse.
But his hands still gripped his reins, his knuckles white. His horse started to drift to the right, brushing against branches.
Of Risk & Redemption: A Revelry’s Tempest Novel Page 13