by Denise Eagan
Turning to Simon, she kept her eyes downcast. “I’m done.”
She must escape, but for now she’d resolved to play his game. Chess had taught her the tactic of outwitting one’s opponent under the pretext of submission, panic or fear. As much as she wished to throw herself at Simon, to tear his face up with her broken, ragged nails, to glory in blood running down his cheeks and splattering his clean white shirt, she clamped down on her emotions. She feigned subservience, while devising escape plans.
“Good,” he said. “We’re off to the henhouse to collect eggs, and then the smoke house for bacon.”
“Yes sir,” she said. When she’d lulled him into false security, she would act.
***
“Well, we’re at the right place, then,” Nick whispered to Del. Hunkered down behind a piled of chopped wood, they watched as Simon escorted Star, at gunpoint, back from the smoke house. Not sure what they’d find at the farm, he and Del had left their rented horses and wagon a half mile away.
“Wonder where the cousin is,” Del said.
“No sign of him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not around,” Nick replied. “Could be in cahoots for all we know.”
“It seems unlikely,” Del said.
“But possible. We don’t want to take any chances. The family doesn’t seem exactly steady.”
“An understatement,” Del said wryly.
While they’d been en-route to Chicago, Keller had tracked down Simon’s father, who’d given him a more detailed rundown of the family history. The family had moved to the elder Price’s native Chicago shortly before Simon had been born. Because of her unwed pregnancy and her fast, quiet marriage to lowborn Price, Boston Society had exiled Price’s mother, Harriet Farnsworth Price. Furious with the inequity of it all, she’d became a marginal player in the woman’s movement in Chicago, attending lectures and rallies. She harangued men whenever possible and publically humiliated her husband and son. Women, she asserted, didn’t deserve equality, for they were better than men. Women created life, and deserved superior status.
When Simon was fifteen his mother died from an accidental fall. Keller believed Simon had “arranged” the fall.
“Hey Nick, that cat there, across the yard, it’s looking under that tarp . . . oh good God, ‘tis a hand.”
Nick inhaled sharply. “The cousin.”
A gunshot rang out in the house.
***
The smell of bacon filled the small red and white kitchen as Star laid Simon’s eggs and bacon in front of him. With the other hand she poured him more coffee, and controlled the urge to let it run over the top of the mug and burn his left hand. The gun was in his right.
“Very good, my love. You may be seated while I eat.”
“I could clean up instead. You mustn’t like the mess.” While eating distracted him, she could slip a knife into her apron pocket.
“Afterwards.”
It wasn’t worth arguing. Seating herself, she tried to ignore her empty stomach and watering mouth as he consumed her labors. Outside of civilized company, it seemed, women did not eat with men. Women served men first, and ate afterward. Consequently, Simon had to eat with a gun in one hand and his fork in the other. One didn’t forfeit morality, he’d explained to her, for the sake of convenience.
She’d refrained from mentioning that he’d murdered two people for convenience.
Recollection of Jane’s pale face as he threw her from the wagon filled Star’s vision. She shoved it aside. She must, instead, focus on saving herself, for she could not expect outside help. The farmhouse lay in a remote area, twenty miles or more outside of Chicago. Her family, if they even thought to look for her, would search the city. She doubted, too, the usefulness of Simon’s remaining relatives, if any existed. He’d not have killed his cousin if he expected anyone to miss him. No, she must save herself, which might require killing Simon.
Could she do it? Rage smoldered in her belly, and her muscles ached from forcing them to maintain a sort of perpetually-prepared numbness. She could use that pent up rage and energy to harm him, but it might also cause her to make mistakes.
“I am done, my love.”
She rose to remove his dishes. After scraping food into a slop bucket to feed the pigs, she turned to drop the dishes and utensils into a wash bin. Something squished under her foot and emitted a little squeal. “Oh!”
Simon jumped up. “What is it? Put down the knife!”
She’d tread on a mouse! A tiny little thing, crawling toward a hole in the floor.
“God damn it, woman, you shall listen when a man addresses you!” Simon took two steps forward, grabbed the handle of the knife and yanked it from her hand. The blade slid along her fingers. Crying out, she dropped dishes and utensils. She opened her hand to examine the wound. A small line sliced diagonally along her fingers. Blood. Her blood, spilled by Simon. Like his cousin’s, like Jane’s. Like Bella’s. That smoldering rage flared to life.
“Damn it, Simon, that hurt!”
“It’s what you deserve for squealing.”
“I didn’t squeal. It was the mouse,” she said, pointing at it with her uninjured hand.
Looking in that direction, he raised his gun. A bang. A bullet cut the poor thing in half, spraying blood all over the wall. Star stared in horror, tears springing to her eyes.
“You bastard,” she spat out, turning to him again. “Why would you do that?”
“What did you call me?” he asked, taking a step forward.
Rage blurred her vision, smothering the pain of the knife wound. “A bastard. An ass, a son of a bitch. If I knew any other curse words I’d—”
He lifted his left hand to hit her. Too angry to fear danger, she shoved his gun hand aside, and raised her knee to jam it into his groin. His blow glanced off the top of her head as he bent over with a low moan. Clasping her hands together, she smashed them down on his back, sending him to the floor. On top of his gun. She couldn’t get to it, damn it, without risking him overpowering her.
But she could run.
She lunged for the door. Through it. Jumped from the top of the steps, stumbled briefly, corrected for it, and ran to barn. To horses, to safety.
***
“Bloody hell,” Del whispered. “He wouldn’t actually shoot her, would he?”
“He shot at Jane.”
“Damn him,” Del said, jumping up. “I’m going to rip him limb from limb.”
While fighting his own mounting fury, Nick grabbed Del’s wrist. “Settle down! You go into this baldheaded and we’ll all get killed.”
Del yanked free and stepped into the yard.
“Goddamn it she may be still alive!” Nick hissed.
Del stopped five feet from the woodpile, within eyesight of anyone who looked out the window. Wide-eyed, he turned to Nick. “You think he’d shoot her just to hurt her?”
“Del, get down—”
The door burst open. Star jumped from the top of the steps, landing on her feet like a cat. She fled across the yard and through the doors of the barn. Before Nick had a chance to acknowledge relief, Simon emerged. He was stumbling, bent over in a way that could only mean one thing. Nick grinned. Good girl!
Del raised his gun. “Stop right there, Price!”
Sonuvabitch!
Nick ducked down as Price turned and aimed. The bullet slammed into Del, spinning him backward before he hit the ground. Del’s answering shot went astray and Price turned toward the barn. Nick shot at his back, but Price was already moving. The bullet only grazed his arm. He made it to the barn and around the side, most likely to sneak around back and bushwhack Star from the rear door.
“Damn,” Nick swore and crept on his knees toward Del. He kept his eyes on the barn in case Price decided to come after them first. “Del,” he whispered, reaching his side. After one last look at the barn, Nick focused on Price’s latest victim. The bullet had gone through his left shoulder. As Del opened his eyes, Nick pulled out his handkerchief and folde
d it into a bandage.
“McGraw. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Glad for it too, I’ll bet,” he said. “A shoulder wound. You’ll live.” He pressed the bandage hard against the bullet wound and Del gasped. “I know it hurts, but hold tight to it anyhow. It’ll slow the blood loss.” He took Del’s right hand and covered the bandage.
Del swallowed. “All right. I’ve got it. You go after Star. Make sure that bastard doesn’t hurt her.”
“I will.” Nick paused as an idea formed. Glancing at the barn, he pulled out his knife. Del’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Listen, McGraw,” Del whispered, licking his lips as he stared at the blade. “I’m sure your frontier medicine has saved some lives, but with all due respect, I’d rather wait for a doctor with a medical degree.”
Nick cut a small hole in the thigh of his pants. “I’m not doctorin’. I’m making it look like I took that last bullet. It’ll give me an excuse for using the cane.” He gently took the bloody bandage from Del’s shoulder and smeared his blood around the hole.
Del raised his eyebrows. “He’ll figure it out,” he said, as Nick replaced the bandage. He tore off his jacket for additional padding.
“I’ll only need a minute.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
You are a villain. I jest not. I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare and when you dare.
Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
Star peered around the corner of the empty stall next to her. Across from her were two more stalls with horses waiting impatiently for their morning exercise. She’d been searching for a rope or halter so she could climb aboard one of them and flee, bareback if necessary, when she’d heard gunshots in the yard. Heart pounding, she’d dived behind the empty stall and plastered herself against the wall. She thought she’d heard the door open, thought she’d seen a flash of light before it closed, too, but he hadn’t made any move since then. Was it her imagination? If he’d entered, why wouldn’t he just come after her? He had the gun and she was unarmed. Unless those shots indicated a threat to him. But who?
It didn’t need to be a person. He’d shot a mouse. Everything threatened Simon and his overblown sense of self-worth.
She took a breath. He’d fired three shots. The mouse made four, which left him with only two bullets in his six-shooter.
One was plenty enough to kill her.
If, however, she could induce him to shoot it twice, the gun would be empty. They’d be all but evenly matched.
Inducing that kind of violence could get her shot. No, she was going to have to kill or disable him first. It was her only chance.
How?
There, next to the empty stall door, was a pitchfork. Could she really stick him with it? She shuddered. She didn’t know. Perhaps, instead, she could wait next to the barn door for his entrance and hit him over the head, hard enough to render him unconscious.
Creeping around the corner, she reached for it. The rough wood rubbed against her knife wound and she winced. Damn Simon, maybe she could kill him after all!
Behind her came the sound of creaking. A click followed . . . a latch, to the door behind her. The barn’s back door! Before she could turn, something hard and round stuck in the middle of her back—the gun. A hand landed on her shoulder. Strong fingers dug into her muscles. “Any sudden moves, Virginia, and this gun will go off. Drop the pitchfork.”
Her heart climbed up her throat, and her stomach clenched as a wave of dizziness passed over her. He was going to kill her. Here, in this barn. Oh God, think, Star, think!
Nothing came to mind. She dropped it.
“Good,” he said. Holding her arm, he pushed her into the open area between the stalls. “You there,” Simon called out. “I’ve got my gun in her back. Come out or I’ll shoot her.”
Her heart fluttered in her throat as she searched the gloom. Someone else was here? Someone else had opened that door.
“My gun’s pointed at your head,” came a voice from the other side of the horses’ stalls. “Let her go.”
Nicholas. Her heart lifted. Then fell. And started to slam against her rib cage. Simon might hesitate to kill her, but he would murder Nicholas without compunction.
The barrel of the gun came around her back to dig into her waist. “I’ll shoot her in the stomach. She’ll die in agony.”
Her belly tightened as if in preparation for the threatened shot.
“O.K.,” Nicholas answered, and came out from behind the stall. Her eyes ran over him, drinking in the tense muscles of his face, his white shirt stretching over his hard, lean chest and his black worsted pants. With a hole and blood smear in the thigh. Simon’s shots in the yard . . . Nicholas’s gun dangled in his right hand as he took a couple of steps toward them. He leaned on a cane in his left hand. His rifle cane.
“McGraw,” Simon said, lightly. “How did you find—” He stopped, peering at him. “I thought I hit you in the chest.”
“Nope. You all right, Miz Montgomery?”
“You may as well use her given name,” Simon rasped. “I know you’ve been fucking her.”
Star flinched. A muscle jumped in Nicholas’s cheek. “Let her go.”
Simon dug the gun deeper into her side. He cocked it. The sound echoed in her brain as she convulsively tried to swallow the lump of fear in her throat.
“Drop the gun, McGraw.”
Nicholas’s eyes caught hers. He leaned more heavily on the cane. A signal, she thought, in case she hadn’t marked it already. But what could he possibly do with Simon’s pistol pointed at him? “Let her go, first, so she doesn’t get shot accidentally. Neither one of us wants her dead, Price. You can’t have redeemed her yet.”
“Drop your gun, and I’ll move mine away from her belly.”
“O.K.,” Nick said. He dropped his gun.
And Simon shifted his pistol to press the cold barrel against her temple. Splendid, Star thought hysterically. Now I won’t die in agony. Instead, my brains will be splattered across the barn.
“How did you find us?” Simon asked.
“Dumb luck, I reckon.”
“I’m no fool, McGraw. You must have talked to someone.”
“O.K. then, I hired a Pinkerton,” Nicholas answered. “He found out about your cousin’s farm. It only stood to reason if you were comin’ to Chicago, you’d head here.”
Perhaps, Star thought trying to calm the hysteria, if she convinced Simon to point his gun away from her, she could bump him as she had with Jane. It would set off his aim and Nicholas could shoot him with the cane rifle.
Trying to catch Nicholas’s gaze she shifted her eyes several times to her right. Please, darling, understand!
“I would have sworn I shot—”Simon started.
Suddenly the barn door opened and a figure appeared behind Nicholas, cutting Simon’s words short. Silhouetted in the sunlight of the barn doors, stood a man, slightly stooped over. Holding a gun. His arm shook as he tried to aim it. His voice was weak but familiar—“Drop it, Price.”
Del.
Nicholas turned to look, while Simon moved his arm to aim. Free of the gun muzzle to her head, Star slammed into Simon, shoving him sideways, and then dove for Nicholas’s forgotten revolver. Del’s gun went off.
Followed by Simon’s.
Del yowled. Star’s hands closed around the six-shooter. She rolled on her back and raised the gun while Simon, still off balance, took a step to steady himself. Another and he tripped over the pitchfork, catapulting into Nicholas. They started to roll around, the cane lost in the struggle.
Oh God, how was she to shoot now? She wasn’t even sure how to shoot a revolver. It wasn’t like a rifle at all.
Simon got one arm free and slammed a fist into the side of Nicholas’s head. Taking advantage of Nicholas’s pain, he broke away and lunged for the pitchfork.
Shakily Star pulled back the hammer, cocking the gun, just as Nicholas reached for the cane. Simon raised the pitchfork over his head, aiming
it at Nicholas’s stomach.
Star squeezed the trigger.
Blood spurted from Simon’s arm. His eyes widened. He lurched, but didn’t drop the fork. Instead, he lifted it higher. Oh God! Star cocked the gun and adjusted her aim. Before she could pull the trigger though, another shot rang out. A hole appeared in Simon’s shirt, over his heart. A red stain spread around it. He stared down, shocked. Then the pitchfork fell, and he slumped to the ground. Dead.
Star slowly shifted her gaze. Nicholas was laying on his back, breathing heavily, the cane rifle clutched in his hands, with smoke rising from the end of it. Turning his head toward her, he blew a piece of straw away from his face and flashed her a smile. “Best shootin’ you ever did, ma’am. Reckon we oughta have started with a pistol instead of a rifle, huh?”
She bit her lip, nodded, and then, no longer able to maintain her composure, burst into tears.
***
“The doc says,” Del said, “that I ought to stay in bed for a week. That I shouldn’t even think about leaving for two. The train leaves tomorrow afternoon at four p.m. Purchase me a ticket, won’t you, sugar?”
Dressed in simple white muslin, Star sat in a chair next to his hotel room bed, deep affection warming her heart as she regarded him. Dressed in a nightshirt, he sat propped up against the headboard, his face almost as pale as the sheets. His dark eyes shone brightly even through heavy doses of morphine. Nicholas sat on the opposite side of the bed, casually draped over the back of a wooden chair, which he’d turned toward the bed. He’d removed his coat, and his grey waistcoat hung open against the heat of the day.
Star avoided eye contact with him. He did the same.
“Jane shan’t be out of the hospital for two more weeks, Del. Don’t you think you ought to wait?” Star asked.
On the return to Chicago the previous day Del had, between deep swallows of the moonshine they’d found in the barn, related the story of Jane’s miraculous survival. Apparently jostling Simon’s arm had set his aim off, and the bullet had missed her. The fall however, had broken her arm and two ribs. By and by, she’d managed to crawl up the bank, where a passerby found her and took her to the hospital. There she’d told anyone who would listen—deliriously and dramatically—what had occurred. Telegrams flew and before Star had spent one night at the farm, everyone knew where she was.