by Benton, Lori
Down below, the cabin door creaked, as if a wind had pushed it inward. Or a hand.
She’d left the pistol on the table.
“Tamsen? You here?”
Tamsen’s heartbeat slowed. “Up here, Bethany. Just checking on things. I’m headed down.”
“Why’d you run off without a word?” Bethany came into the cabin with a gust of chilly air, looking and sounding almost timid. “You worried Mama when she found you gone. Pa was about to come running over the ridge with rifle and hatchet, but I said I’d come fetch you back.”
Tamsen halted at the foot of the ladder. “They needn’t have worried so.”
Bethany frowned. “What would Jesse say if they didn’t? Pa promised to look after you.”
“There’s no one here going to bother me.”
“I thought that once.” Though Bethany’s mouth had healed and the bruise under her eye was all but faded, more lasting scars left by Dominic Trimble showed in her gaze.
It occurred to Tamsen this was the first time Bethany had visited their cabin since that day. The girl had her arms crossed, holding the ends of a shawl together across her breasts.
“I’m sorry.” Tamsen came around the table to give her arm a squeeze. “It was brave of you to come after me.”
Bethany smiled, but her eyes were haunted. Clearly she didn’t want to be there. “You’re missing Jesse. I understand.”
Tamsen wasn’t sure how to answer, how to admit the rawness of her feelings, her hope, when the girl assumed they’d married weeks ago. “I do miss him. We haven’t been parted like this since we left Morganton. I almost wished I’d begged him not to go.”
She leaned on the table, heart aching.
“I’m not sure which would’ve been safer for him,” Bethany said. “Staying or going.”
Tamsen stared, puzzled by the remark. “Safer?”
“With the charges and all hanging over him.” Bethany looked at her as if expecting her to understand. “That stepfather of yours is a right scary piece of work, ain’t he? Trying to pin kidnapping and murder on Jesse, who’d never think of doing either thing.”
Feeling her knees go weak, Tamsen kicked out a bench and sat, landed crooked, and nearly toppled to the floor before she caught herself. Kidnapping and …
“Murder?” She met Bethany’s quizzical stare and felt her heart plunge to her belly. Why had she never thought it? Of course Mr. Parrish was going to blame someone else for her mother’s death. And who was there to blame but Jesse?
It was Bethany’s turn to gape, blue eyes going wide. “You didn’t know about that? But you’re Jesse’s wife, and it was your mother. How could you not know?”
Because Jesse had kept it from her. So very carefully kept it from her. But not from the Allards.
She opened her mouth but could make no sound.
Bethany came to her, put a hand on her arm as Tamsen had moments ago done her. “Pa knows. So does Mama. I heard him telling her about it. Reckon they didn’t mean me to hear, but I never thought you didn’t know.”
Tamsen’s desire for solitude earlier was nothing to the screaming need for it now. “It’s all right.” Somehow she made her voice steady, though it sounded thick to her ears, unnatural, like talking under water. “But will you please go?”
Bethany licked her lips, gaze swinging to the door, then back to Tamsen, uncertain. “But I promised Pa, and he promised Jesse—”
Tamsen forced a smile of reassurance. “Just start back home, all right? I’ll be along.”
The girl needed little more persuasion.
Bethany was barely out the door before Tamsen knew her mind. She couldn’t let the charge of murder fall on Jesse. How long had he known about it? Why hadn’t he told her?
“Oh, Jesse.” Did he think her so frail? She was afraid—shaking with it. But she knew what she must do. Luther Teague had known Jesse half his life. He would vouchsafe his character. Along with her account of what truly happened in Mrs. Brophy’s house, it had to be enough to counter whatever outrageous lies her stepfather had concocted. It had to be.
If it wasn’t, she still had the coins in her mother’s box. Money was all her stepfather cared about. Maybe it would be enough to make him go away—if he was still looking to force her back under his control. Looking to harm Jesse.
That’s what she had to find out. They couldn’t go on living with this shadow hanging over them, this ax waiting to fall. Jesse had done so much for her, caught her up like an eagle on its wings and carried her off to where she could rest and heal and find her strength. And her heart. The least she could do was try to clear his name—and convince Hezekiah Parrish, and Ambrose Kincaid if he hunted her too, to forget she ever existed.
She packed a few provisions, donned her warmest clothes, gathered more shot and powder for the pistol, and made it a mile from the cabin before she heard the hollow beat of hooves on the trail ahead, coming along at a clip, on the far side of a jutting boulder that loomed above the trail.
Jesse. Cade. A rush of joy and relief carried her swiftly forward. She was halfway to calling out, “Jess—” when two horses rounded the boulder, and all three of them drew up short in surprise.
It was Seth and Dominic Trimble. Their gazes shifted beyond her, as if looking for anyone else coming along the trail. Fear coiled in her belly, a writhing snake.
Dominic’s brow and lip still bore the faint marks of Jesse’s fists. A fresh wounding too. The slow grin spreading across his broken face was a chilling sight. “Look who’s come to meet us, Seth. Mighty obligin’ of you, Tamsen Littlejohn.”
The snake in her belly tightened its coils, slithering up to squeeze her throat. They knew. Through the buzzing of alarm that filled her brain, a small voice was telling her she was going to have to run or fight. Or maybe—just maybe—she could bluff her way back to the Allards’ and safety. She narrowed her eyes and raised her chin.
“What are you two doing in Greenbird Cove?” she demanded, hoping the shock at hearing her name hadn’t showed on her face. “If Tate Allard catches sight of you—”
“Where is ol’ Tate?” Dominic cut in, unconcerned. “Where’s Jesse, for that matter? What you doing out on this trace alone?”
Tamsen swallowed, desperate for something to say, some means of threat. She had the pistol. It was loaded and primed. It was also tucked into her pocket, deep beneath her skirt.
The Trimbles urged their horses forward, moving to opposite sides as if to cut her off. Fear spurted through her, chill and sharp. She fumbled for the slit in her skirt, but couldn’t get the pistol free before the horses were strides away from hemming her in, trapping her between them. She’d seconds to flee, and only one way to go that horses couldn’t easily follow. One way she might have a chance.
Clutching her box, still fighting to free the pistol, she scrambled down the stony bank into the water, leaving curses—more annoyed than alarmed—behind her.
The water was shockingly cold and swift, no higher than her knees, but the bed was a jumble of ankle-turning rocks and she hadn’t a hand free to keep her cloak and petticoat from trailing, slowing her, threatening to stumble her. She lost both shoes before she reached the other side.
The Trimbles were off their horses, pounding down the bank, plunging into the creek. She heard them coming and pushed on, up the far slope through half-leafless trees, hampered by the drag of wet linen and wool. She drove her stockinged toes into the hillside, stabbing her soles with twigs and debris, too numbed from the cold creek to feel anything but the slam of her heart and the burn of her lungs and side and the blood pumping through her veins like liquid terror.
She heard heavy breathing, louder than her own gasps, louder than the noise of her flight. One of them was almost upon her.
With a ripping of seams, she wrenched the pistol free and whirled on the slope. Her mother’s box tumbled from her grasp as she gripped the weapon in both hands and fired.
They’d gagged her, bound her wrists, and taken her
into the hills. It had come on to rain, fat drops that smacked through the leaves still clinging to the broad oak she was propped against, beating the acorn-littered ground. Chilling her.
Already half-soaked from the creek, Tamsen felt the cold working deep, aching in the bones of her feet and legs still encased in torn, wet stockings. Her nose ran freely. She tried to clench her teeth, feeling the urge to chatter them, but the gag prevented both. She cracked her eyelids for a look. The Trimbles hadn’t yet realized she was conscious.
“It ain’t but a scratch,” Dominic muttered, kneeling beside his brother, who’d removed his coat and torn aside his shirt sleeve to bare a deep red scoring above his elbow, bleeding scarlet runnels down his rain-wet forearm.
She’d done that. She remembered Seth, spun to the ground by the pistol’s shot, tumbling back toward the creek. Unbalanced by the recoil, she’d sat down hard, unable to scramble up again before Dominic wrested the pistol from her and slammed it against her head.
What happened after was a blur. She’d been hauled off her feet, carried back over the creek, thrown across a horse, too dizzy from the blow to fight. Next she recalled was the horses plunging off the trail into cover, Dominic holding her fast across the saddle. Had she heard another horse pass? Someone calling her name? Had it been Tate? Jesse? Jesse …
The Trimbles had moved higher into the hills, to avoid being seen with her, she guessed. They knew who she was. Knew she was sought. Was there some sort of reward in the offering? Did they hope to turn her over for money? She had money. They’d taken her mother’s box as well as the pistol and satchel, but they hadn’t untied the cords that held it shut. She saw it, sitting on the ground just out of reach.
“It’s deep enough, blast it!” Seth said through gritted teeth. “Will you hurry up and bind it? We need to get home, out’n this rain. Find Kincaid.”
A whimper bubbled in her throat at the name. The Trimbles looked at her. She shook her head, making it explode with pain. She squeezed her eyes shut until it receded, then made motions toward the box, trying to communicate her intention. Dominic rose and came to her, rain dripping off the brim of his hat onto her already soaked lap. He saw where it landed, then met her gaze.
“Don’t think I ain’t tempted,” he told her with a loathing that left her shaken. “But there’s folk got other plans for you, and we got our reasons for helping them. So be good, come along peaceful-like, and no one need get hurt.”
“I’m hurt,” Seth gritted out behind him. “Jesse must’ve taught her to shoot that thing.” He jerked his chin at the confiscated pistol, lying with her box.
Dominic turned back to finish wrapping a length of torn shirting around his brother’s arm. “This ain’t the kind of hurt I mean,” he muttered.
Tamsen’s mind spun, trying to work out what was happening. They were taking her to Ambrose Kincaid. And her stepfather? Had they even mentioned him? A shiver worked through her and didn’t stop. Her brain felt thick and sluggish.
“We get her to Brose,” Dominic was saying in reply to something she’d missed. “Then you’ll see. He’ll keep his word and forget he ever saw us here.”
“ ’Cept it ain’t no good,” Seth retorted. “ ’Cause you gone and made it as hot for us on the Watauga as it was in Virginy. We ought to be moving on, not helping Brose get his girl back.”
That jarred her into sharper focus. She made a noise of protest in her throat. She was not and never had been Ambrose Kincaid’s girl.
Dominic cast her a withering look. “Get used to the notion. Jesse’s gonna hang for murder.” He made a tsking sound, mocking her. “What sort of woman spurns a man like Kincaid for one that kills her ma and carries her off Overmountain?”
Even in her misery, Tamsen could tell Dominic Trimble didn’t believe a word of the accusation he’d just spoken. Nor did he care. He wanted to see Jesse come to harm.
Seth got to his feet and winced back into his wet coat. “Get the horses. We’ll have to pick our way from here, can’t take the trail.”
The shiver had become a shudder by the time she was hoisted back onto the horse, dripping wet and numb with cold.
Leaving the dogs and mules at the Trimbles’ cabin, Charlie Spencer backtracked the mile or so to Sycamore Shoals, with more coin to spend than he’d seen in many a season. The fellow in the trade store was happy to take some off his hands. He chose his supplies while thinking over the route he meant to follow come morning, up the Watauga. He only wished he felt better about what he’d be leaving behind.
He wasn’t easy about the latest turn the hunt for Miss Littlejohn had taken or that Kincaid knew nothing about it, having stayed in Jonesborough to do his asking ’round. Charlie didn’t know what Parrish told Kincaid to explain his setting out for Sycamore Shoals without him, but Charlie had been forced to agree with the man—those Trimbles knew more’n they’d let on about Miss Littlejohn. Following them to Sycamore Shoals made a certain sense, never mind how badly Charlie wished it hadn’t when Parrish asked him to lead the way. He could hardly refuse, having admitted he was headed there directly. So off they’d gone, Parrish on horseback, Charlie leading his long-suffering pack train, the dogs happily roaming the trace’s borders, looking to scare up something to chase.
The Trimbles might’ve ridden hellbent out of Jonesborough, but they hadn’t gone far. They overtook the pair five miles out, camped off the trace behind a scrim of buttonbush. The two sprung up from their fire at Parrish’s call of greeting but eased seeing Kincaid wasn’t in their company.
Twilight was creeping in thick, but the clouds had parted to show stars. The Trimbles had shot themselves a turkey and seemed inclined to share the bounty. Parrish put his horse to graze, then he and Charlie and the dogs joined the brothers at their fire.
“See you parted ways with Mr. High-and-Mighty,” Dominic said once they’d settled down to eat.
Charlie, parceling out bits of turkey meat to the dogs, glanced at Parrish. He didn’t take offense on Kincaid’s behalf, though Charlie felt unease cinch his belly. The girl-dog, Nell, whined to him. A string of drool dropped from her lips. He tossed what remained of his turkey to her.
He hadn’t unloaded his mules right off but hobbled them near the horses in good grass. He hadn’t made up his mind about staying the night in that company.
“Seems he’s set on marrying your girl,” Dominic pressed. “Guess you agreed to the match, coming all this way together. I take it she didn’t?”
Parrish had been about to put meat in his mouth. He lowered it and stared with level brows at Trimble. “You would be mistaken in that assumption. The last words I heard out of her mouth were of an agreeable nature.”
The pair across the fire exchanged a glance, heavy with meaning.
“Well, then,” Dominic said after taking a swig from a flask. “What’s the story about this kidnapping and murder business? Did Kincaid tell us everything? Who is it you think done the deed?”
Dominic kept his eyes on Parrish, who calmly tore off another bite of turkey from a leg, then nodded toward Charlie. “He’s the one you ought to ask, though I’ve a fair idea I had a run-in with the villain myself. I caught him menacing my stepdaughter in the stable the day prior to her disappearance. I never learned his name.”
“But you’ve seen him too?” Seth asked, looking across the flames at Charlie.
“West of Morganton,” Charlie admitted. “Miss Littlejohn in tow. They looked to’ve been travelin’ the night through. The girl never spoke a word—she was plain done in. The feller claimed they’d just been married.”
“A lie.” Parrish said it with such venom that both Trimbles raised their brows. He met their gazes square. “I think you both know it to be.”
Charlie mistrusted the mocking eyes of the sandy-haired Trimble. He’d a cunning look, that one. He caught Charlie’s gaze and the look vanished, washed out by a ready grin. “Can’t say as we do or don’t. We’re late coming into this tale. There’s a lot we ain’t got straight yet
. Like what’s Kincaid doing now, hanging back in Jonesborough?”
“We figured he’d be the one hot on our trail,” Seth added.
They were hedging, unwilling to admit whatever they knew, or thought they knew. Charlie reckoned they wanted to get the girl to Kincaid so he’d keep his word and not haul them back to Virginia.
“He thought to stay on another day,” Parrish said. “Make further inquiries before he heads for Sycamore Shoals. He talked of gathering a posse. My guess is such won’t be necessary.”
The brothers shared another speaking look. Seth asked, “What’re you thinking, Dom? Ought we to ride on up—”
Dominic tossed his flask at his brother, who broke off to catch it—and his brother’s glare.
Parrish watched them close, a cat waiting to pounce.
Charlie let on like he hadn’t noticed. “Reckon I’ll see to the mules.”
When he rose, so did the dogs. He motioned them back and went into the dark beyond the firelight’s reach. He unloaded the mules, piled their burdens beneath a spreading oak tree, and started back to find himself a dry spot to sleep—could such be found—when he saw first one Trimble, then the other, rise from the fire and head in different directions, as if to answer nature’s call. Parrish watched them go, then went back to finishing off the turkey remains while the dogs looked on, hoping in vain.
Paused in the dark beneath the oak, Charlie heard Seth Trimble first, a faint crackle of movement through the brush. Trimble paused. Half a minute later, a second set of footsteps came out of the forest. Dominic had circled ’round to his brother. The two stood close, shadows in the starlight, too far off for Charlie to catch all their words, but scraps of their talk reached him. He dared not take a step lest even moccasins on wet leaves betray him.
“… meanin’ to steal her out from under Jesse’s nose? How?”
Charlie strained to hear an answer, but it was too low to catch. He glanced over to see Parrish tossing bones into the fire.
A breeze shifted, carrying its secrets.