Her eyes caught on the Bible she’d laid in the trunk. Berklyn Stockholders. Larson’s letter from that company peeked at her from between the pages—identical to the stationery she’d seen in MacGregor’s office that day. She’d meant to ask Miss Stacey about the company on her visit to the bank yesterday but had forgotten.
One of the jumbled pieces suddenly slid into place. “Does Mr. MacGregor own a company by the name of Berklyn Stockholders?”
His cold eyes grew appraising. “Very good, Mrs. Jennings. I told MacGregor he didn’t have a reason to worry about you, but I guess he was right after all.” He pulled her up from the bed. “We’re gonna take a walk. Not far, just a ways over the bluff out back. It ain’t safe for a woman in your condition to be out by herself, you know. But you’re a headstrong woman, Kathryn. Everyone around here will say so. You just wouldn’t listen to reason, that’s what they’ll say. You went off on a walk by yourself, and . . . well, accidents happen.”
He shoved her toward the door and Kathryn lost her balance.
She tried to turn enough to absorb the fall with her shoulder, but her abdomen took the brunt of the blow. She gasped, hunched over on the floor. A spasm arched across her belly, throbbing low and steady. Oh, Jesus . . . not my baby, not my baby.
“Please,” she panted, face down. “Tell MacGregor he can have the land, the water, everything. I won’t contest it.”
He knelt down beside her and slipped his hands around her throat, gently at first. He tipped her chin with his thumb, forcing Kathryn to look at him. “It’s a bit late for that, ma’am. Maybe if you’d been more agreeable on the front end.” His grip tightened around her windpipe, his thumbs pressing in, cutting off her air. Then, with his hands still encircling her throat, he drew her up and held her against the wall.
Choking, Kathryn tried to fight him, but it did little good. His strength far outmatched hers. She watched him gleam with pleasure just as his face started to fade. . . .
In the instant before she blacked out, he let go and she slumped back to the floor. Her lungs burned as she dragged air in. She coughed and cradled her throat with her hands, swallowing convulsively. She pictured Sadie lying in bed that night, her body limp and pulse erratic, the faint outline of fingerprints spanning her slender neck.
“Time to go, Mrs. Jennings.”
Kathryn heard the bedroom door open, then felt a vicelike grip on her arms. He pulled her along with him into the next room, but her foot caught on a table and she went down again. Something crashed beside her head and the scent of lamp oil layered the air. She felt the dampness in her hair.
She curled on her side as the spasm in her belly heightened. Pain ripped through her body, and her breath came in short gasps. Sudden warmth gushed from between her legs, and Kathryn heard a low moan, only to realize seconds later that it was coming from her.
He stood over her, and she instinctively shielded her abdomen with her arms. He searched his pockets, then cursed and strode into the kitchen.
As quickly as it came, the pain subsided.
Kathryn tried to push herself up and stood successfully on the second attempt. She’d never make it to the front door, and certainly wouldn’t be able to outrun him in her condition. She crept toward the kitchen and watched him pull open a cupboard drawer, curse again, and throw it on the floor. Silverware scattered over the hardwood floor as he jerked open another.
Then he stilled, with something in his grip.
Kathryn looked around and grabbed the first thing she saw—a brass candlestick. The solid metal was cool to the touch, and the weight of it gave her courage. She crept up behind him and swung just as he turned. The crack of the candlestick against his temple made a dull, sickening thud.
His eyes went black with rage. He lunged for her, then fell to the floor, motionless. Kathryn dropped the candlestick and ran.
“Jacob!” She moved as fast as she could away from the cottage and toward the stable. The corrals were empty, the doors closed. Though the stable was not far from the cottage, she tired quickly and slowed her pace, glancing behind her every few steps to see if she was being followed.
The fall air combined with the dampness between her legs and chilled her. The cold seemed to seep deep inside her bones, and her body started shaking. She rubbed her arms for circulation, but the tremors seemed to start from somewhere deep inside her. Kathryn reached to open the stable door just as another spasm hit. She went to her knees.
Scarcely able to breathe, she checked behind her. No sign of Jacob, nor anyone else.
Minutes passed.
Finally managing to lift the bar, she pulled the door open and stepped inside, certain she’d find Jacob there. Thinking twice, she turned back and closed the door behind her. Most likely the man would check the main house first. He wouldn’t think to look in here. For a time, she was safe.
She quietly called Jacob’s name while searching the empty stalls. Then she stopped, remembering something Jacob had said about having to visit the lower stable. Alarm shot through her even as an overpowering sensation began building deep within.
It started low and hard in her pelvic region, then moved downward. Her legs went weak. Wide-eyed, she looked down at her body, partly in awe of the miracle secreted inside her womb, but mostly terrified that the child had chosen now to make its way into the world!
She spotted a blanket on a bed of hay and sank down on top of it. Her legs shook uncontrollably, and a shudder swept through her. Leaning back against the roughhewn wall, she drew her legs up, trying to get warm.
The creak of a door brought her head up. She kept perfectly still.
“I know you’re in here, Kathryn.”
Stifling a cry, Kathryn scooted to the farthest corner of the stable and hid between bales of hay. She pulled the blanket over her head and prayed God would make her invisible.
“You know I’m kinda proud of you in a way, ma’am. I had no idea you had such mettle.” The stall doors creaked open, one by one, before banging shut. His voice came closer. “You’re puttin’ up a much bigger fight than your husband did.”
Kathryn imagined Larson being ambushed by this man in the storm that night. Did Larson hear anything before the bullet struck him? Did he see the gun or feel pain for long? Closing her eyes, she hoped again that he’d died quickly, without suffering. And she took odd comfort in knowing that, if death did come for her and her child today, they would be united with Larson. But right now, in this moment, all Kathryn wanted was life. Life for herself and her child.
Making herself as small as she could, she pressed back between the bales. The air beneath the blanket grew warm and stale. Another spasm ripped across her abdomen, and she bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. Her body broke out in a sweat as the metallic taste of blood reached her tongue.
“Why, there you are, Mrs. Jennings.” He ripped off the blanket. The right side of his face was streaked with blood, his mouth twisted. “I think we’re gonna have to call off that walk though. I’m just not in the mood for it anymore. But I’ve got something else in mind.”
The disturbing calm of his voice, coupled with the crazed look in his eyes, sent a shudder through her.
He walked to the side door and picked up an ax. Kathryn tried to stand up, but weakness pinned her down. He secured the bar against the back door, took the ax, and sank it deep into the wood, effectively wedging the bar into place. Then he grabbed a coil of rope from the workbench.
Kneeling in front of her, he grabbed her ankles, jerked her flat onto her back, and looped the rope around her legs several times, pulling it taut.
“Please don’t do this,” she cried. Where is Jacob? She screamed his name.
“Yell all you like, ma’am. I told you no one else is here.” He bound her wrists behind her back, then walked to the workbench and picked up a lamp. “You’ve surprised MacGregor once too often, Kathryn. And me too.” He touched his temple and pulled away bloody fingers. “You won’t be doin’ that again.”
Lighting the wick, he came to stand beside her and began swinging the lamp in slow, lazy arches over her legs. “If it makes you feel any better, you’ll be joining your husband real soon. That should at least be some . . .”
As he spoke and she realized his intention, Kathryn couldn’t help but think of Jacob. She screamed for him again, over and over, thinking of the scars that covered his face, chest, and arms. Her eyes followed the flame arching over her—back and forth, back and forth—and she could almost feel the fire licking at her skin. Remembering Jacob’s fear of the flame, her breath came harder.
“Please don’t do this, please . . .” In broken sobs, she begged for her life, for the life of her baby.
“It won’t hurt for long, or so I’m told. . . .” He talked over her as though not hearing.
She wriggled her arms and legs, trying to scoot away, her eyes never leaving the flame. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Tell me what it is you want.”
He knelt down and brought the lamp close to her face. She turned away, clenching her eyes shut. “It just hit me, there’s something . . . What’s that word . . . ?” He paused. “Oh yeah, poetic about this. Don’t you think? You’re dyin’ the same way your husband did.”
He made an exploding noise, and Kathryn went absolutely still inside.
She opened her eyes in time to see him heave the lamp against the stable wall behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
KATHRYN HEARD THE crash of glass, then smelled the acrid scent of burning hay and wood. When she looked back, the man was gone and flames were creeping up the wall toward the loft. Feeding on the aged lumber, the fire kindled and sent sparks shooting into the dry hay around her.
“You’re dyin’ the same way your husband did.”
She tried to scoot away, but the small distance her efforts gained drained her energy. Her arms ached from being wrenched behind her. The rope cut into her wrists, but she continued to work her arms up and down, praying the knot would give. Smoke layered the air, taking oxygen with it.
“You’re dyin’ the same way your husband did.”
What had he meant by that? Larson had died by a gunshot wound to the chest. But the man who claimed to have killed her husband said she was dying the same way he did. Crying, choking, her lungs clawing for air, Kathryn felt her chest growing heavy and tight. The ceiling above her rained down sparks, writhing and dancing like a living thing.
She tried to form a prayer in her heart but couldn’t. Only one name came to mind, and as the smoke thickened, shrouding her and her child in a suffocating blanket of gray, she whispered the name over and over and over again.
Jesus . . . Jesus . . . Jesus . . .
Larson finished hitching the fresh pair of sorrel mares to the wagon, still unable to comprehend what had just been revealed to him. Kathryn was carrying his child, a child they’d made together. Remembering the look in her eyes as she’d told Childers the news— truth was the only word Larson could think of to describe it.
The mares pranced nervously in the harness as Larson closed the gates. He spoke in hushed tones in an effort to soothe them, puzzled at their skittishness.
It was hard to believe that William Cummings was dead, and had died penniless in the end after having spent a lifetime in pursuit of wealth. Climbing into the wagon, Larson caught a glimpse of his scarred hands and knew there was a lesson in there for him, one he had already taken to heart. God, Kathryn deserves better than me, I know that. But if you give me another chance, with your strength inside me, I’ll love her better this time.
Larson released the brake and the horses pulled forward without command. He reined in to keep control, but the horses only whinnied more and strained at the bit.
The breeze shifted, revealing the faintest hint of smoke.
He scanned the plains stretching west to the mountains. Not a cloud in the sky, no haze on the horizon. The ranch hands he’d run into moments ago had already crested the western bluff and were out of sight, gone to check on the stock. The lower stables blocked his view of the big house and the upper buildings, so he urged the mares forward. When the wagon rounded the corner, he went numb. Panic rushed to fill the void.
Wisps of smoke seeped from the sides of the stable near Kathryn’s cottage, spiraling upward. Flames licked the rooftop. Larson could feel them on his skin. Dread poured through him, and for a moment, he was back in that shack, when the world turned to fire.
At his command, the horses surged forward. The wagon jarred and bumped over the rutted road. The cottage was a fair distance from the stable and the wind was minimal. Plenty of time to get Kathryn.
He reined in by the cottage and jumped down. The door was open.
“Kat!” he yelled. A lamp lay shattered, and dark stains splattered the hardwood floor. When he didn’t find her in the bedroom, he ran back outside and looked toward the stable. She couldn’t be. If she was in the main house, she was fine. If she was in the stable . . . He ran, ignoring the pain in his leg.
He pulled his bandanna from his back pocket and tied it over his nose and mouth, then shoved his glasses into his coat pocket. As he reached the door, it swung open.
Smoke poured out as a man backed out of the stable. Coughing, the man slammed the door and turned. The right side of his face was covered in blood, but Larson recognized him—a ranch hand he’d seen a couple of times, but only at a distance.
The man’s expression registered surprise, then hardened. “Well, what are you waitin’ for, man! Help me get some water!”
Larson didn’t move. Neither did the other man.
“I said get some water!”
That voice. Something about it—
A cry came from inside the stable. Larson glanced at the door, then back to the man, and panic inside him exploded. He threw the first punch.
The fellow staggered back, looking stunned. Then he cursed and flicked his tongue along the edge of his mouth, meeting blood. His lips twisted in a sneer. “Let’s get on with it, mister. You can die slow or long, don’t matter to me.”
Like an invisible blow, recognition hit him. It wasn’t the man’s face, but his voice. Larson looked him in the eye, then tugged his bandanna down. “I think you already tried to kill me once. Or don’t you remember?”
Confusion clouded the man’s smirk. He stared at Larson’s face for a second; then his eyes narrowed to slits. Larson braced himself for the charge.
He hit Larson hard, putting his full weight into the assault. Larson staggered back, his right leg buckling until only sky filled his view. He turned to avoid a right-handed punch, but the man’s boot connected with his ribcage and expelled the air from his lungs. Larson rolled to his side, struggling to fill them again.
Expecting another blow, he looked around and glimpsed the guy striding back to the stable. The man jerked open the door and smoke poured out. Oh, God, don’t let him hurt her.
Larson struggled to his feet and followed, pausing inside the door. No sign of the man. Fire engulfed the loft, greedily licking the walls of the stable. Larson’s feet felt bolted to where he stood. He remembered the feel of it on his skin, scathing his flesh, and he couldn’t move. The acrid scent of its fury filled his nostrils.
Then came another memory, stronger and clearer than the others— the memory of invisible arms rescuing him from a similar fate last December. He pulled the kerchief back up and raced inside.
“Kathryn!” He checked each stall, watching behind him as he went.
Thick smoke hovered in heavy folds, and the farther back Larson went, the less he could distinguish. God, you are my strength, my shield, my deliverer. Give me eyes to see. He felt his way along the stable wall to the back, the smoke choking him. He called her name again, but the hungry blaze devoured the sound.
Then he heard it. She was calling out a name, but it wasn’t his. Still, it was the sweetest sound Larson had ever heard. Like a candle in the darkness, it led him to her. He found her lying on her back.
As he
bent to lift her, a slice of wordless warning shot through him.
He turned and caught the man hard in the gut with his shoulder. The guy staggered back, dropping the ax that had been in his hands. But he didn’t go down. Instead, he charged again. Using his opponent’s momentum, Larson undercut him and vaulted him onto his back. He landed with a thud. Larson hoped he would stay down—silently willed it—but the man struggled to his feet.
Larson came at him full force, and the ranch hand fell back, groaning. The heavy beams supporting the loft above them groaned in protest, and Larson watched the flames devouring the thick beams like parched kindling.
He crawled back to Kathryn and lifted her. Her body was limp in his arms and his hope followed suit. He carried her outside and gently laid her beside the well. She stirred and coughed, drawing rapid, shallow breaths. He sank down beside her, the muscles in his arms and shoulders aching with fatigue. Larson yanked the bandanna from his face and dragged air into his lungs.
After untying her wrists and ankles, he felt her arms and legs, checking her body for burns. He hesitated, then slowly moved his hands over her unborn child, his child. Lord, please let him be all right. Faint movement rippled beneath his hands, and he almost laughed for joy.
A deafening crack exploded behind him, and Larson spun.
The walls of the stable surrendered to the fiery onslaught and caved in, taking the loft with it. Flames engulfed the building, sending sparks shooting high into the air. He thought of the man inside but felt no remorse. Kathryn was his only concern.
Larson drew water from the well and drenched his kerchief. “Kathryn,” he whispered, smoothing her face with the moist cloth.
Her eyes fluttered open, then clamped shut again. A deep cough rattled her chest. He knew what she must be feeling, like the inside of her lungs were charred. He encouraged slow breaths and checked her face and neck again for burns. Even streaked with a combination of dirt and soot with tears, his wife was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Rekindled Page 33