by Pam Crooks
“Enough of this!” Father Donovan reached for Landry, but the inmate met him with a sweep of his mighty arm, and the priest went flying, landing in a heap on the floor.
“No!” Sister Evangeline rushed forward, her hand extended as if she feared he’d do the priest further harm. His arm swung out again, and she fell over Father Donovan in a tangle of brown wool and rosary beads.
Hannah cried out in dismay, her pulse pounding in terror of this man who was no better than a savage.
“We’re okay, Hannah,” the priest said, his tone terse, his hands fighting to free himself from the young nun sprawled over him.
“Fenwick!” Landry snapped. The older man jumped, his skin paling above the starched collar of his shirt. “You make Briggs look like a goddamn saint.”
Spots of color rose in the man’s cheeks. “I beg your pardon!”
Landry’s lip curled in a feral sneer. He jabbed the club toward the tray of vials. “Destroy your Solution!”
“What?” he paled again. “You can’t mean that! I’ve worked years on it. I’m on the threshold of success.” Fenwick’s smooth-skinned hands shook. He ran his tongue along his lower lip. “Look, I’ll pay you--.”
“Destroy it!”
Landry strode forward and hurled the tray against the wall. Glass vials shattered. Papers flew. Streams of the Solution trailed downward into dark streaks, the clear liquid soaking into the floor and forever smearing the inked notations on the papers strewn across the ground.
With an anguished yell, Fenwick lunged for him. Landry slammed the club against the side of Fenwick’s face. He screamed and fell back, bounced off the bed behind him and stumbled to the floor. He choked on a sob and curled into a fetal position. His body rocked back and forth. Blood ran from the gash on his mouth.
The inmates squirmed on their beds, their leather straps straining in their quest to be free. They riveted their gazes on Landry, their expressions hopeful, eager.
He ignored them all.
Instead, his dark-eyed gaze found Hannah.
“Come here,” he said softly.
She drew back in alarm.
With a shout, Briggs reared up from the floor like a dragon breathing fire and lunged for the bed next to her. His hand closed around the forgotten syringe, the one yet filled with Solution, and before Landry could react, before any of them could, he leapt forward and plunged the needle into Landry’s upper arm. His thumb pressed against the syringe’s flat top, releasing the liquid into the inmate’s body.
Roaring in rage, Landry thrust him aside like rancid meat. His fist clenched and connected with the warden’s jaw. Bone hit bone, and Briggs crumpled, out cold.
Landry spat an oath and yanked the needle from his arm. He swore again.
Horror-stricken, Hannah’s wide-eyed stare met his. His hand closed around her wrist with a vehement snarl. He jerked her toward him and pressed her back against his chest. His arm folded over her throat.
It seemed he squeezed the very breath from her lungs. The syringe, still a quarter full, hovered only inches from her neck.
“Sweet heaven, don’t hurt her,” Father Donovan rasped, his features ashen. He struggled to rise.
“Stay where you are!” Landry shouted and backed toward the door, dragging Hannah with him.
“Please! Take me instead!” he pleaded.
A sob rose within Hannah. Sister Evangeline’s expression was stricken with despair; her lips moved in frantic prayer.
The club swung in a menacing arc. “Anyone comes after us, she gets injected, too. Hear me?”
And then, too soon, they were out of the infirmary, past the barred wall and in the darkened hall. The stench assailed her nostrils, the clamor from the frenzied code of desperate men all too aware of mutiny pounded in her ears, and she became a part of the awful horror in this penitentiary.
Suddenly, Landry halted and went still. From the shadows loomed the scar-faced Titus. He drew upon them with great, lumbering steps, and Landry heaved the end of his club into the guard’s belly. The unsuspecting man doubled over with a grunt and sprawled backwards.
Landry kept moving. Hannah’s hand came up and clutched his forearm for balance. Her sandals made poor shoes for running, and it was all she could do to keep them on her feet. Still, he propelled her forward at a rapid pace, his body pushing hers to move faster, faster past the underground cells to the end of the murky hall.
A door blocked their escape. Amazingly, he released her, using both hands to ram the club against the lock. Hannah spun, lifted her skirts to flee, but before she could escape, he had her in his grip again.
His forearm pressed against her throat; his body pressed her against the wall. The syringe flashed before her, close, appallingly close, and she froze.
“Don’t try that again,” he hissed. “I’ll kill you. I swear it.”
His tight grasp allowed her no response. Her heart thudded in her breast. She couldn’t breathe.
A rumble of voices reached them from the direction of the infirmary.
“Damn.” He stepped back and snared her wrist, jerking her in front of him, pushing her toward the door, its lock now destroyed.
He gave the door a swift kick. It crashed open, and they rushed through, leaving the darkness of the penitentiary for the darkness of the night. A sliver of moonlight illuminated the prison grounds, highlighting a courtyard surrounded by plain, wooden buildings.
Hannah sucked clean air into her lungs. Landry broke into a run, pulling her behind him, his long legs a full stride ahead of hers. The sandals slipped and slid. Her ankle turned, and she gasped in pain.
They reached a storage building to the left of the courtyard. Landry fell back against it. His muscular forearms encircled her again.
“Please,” Hannah said, her chest heaving. “Go without me.”
A cynical laugh left him, his breath hot on her cheek. “I don’t think so, darlin’.” Moonlight glinted on the needle’s tip, scant inches from her chin. “You’re in this with me to the end.”
“I’ll only slow you down.” She hated the desperation in her tone. “I’ll hide here. I won’t tell them which way you went. I promise.”
“Don’t play me for a fool.” Menace laced the whispered threat. The syringe dipped closer.
Hannah bit her lip.
He peered around the edge of the building. The courtyard was silent. He turned back to her. “See that rig over there?”
Her glance stretched across a large, open area--a rock quarry where the inmates worked--and settled upon the black shape of a carriage, complete with a waiting team of horses.
“Fenwick’s,” he said. “We’re going to make a run for it.”
“I can’t.” A dull ache claimed her ankle. Any minute, the courtyard would fill with angry guards and an even angrier warden. Her sandals were a curse.
“You will.”
“Don’t make me do this.”
“Quit whining.”
She clamped her mouth shut. She hated him, and it’d been a very long time since she’d hated anyone.
“Briggs doesn’t give a damn about you.” His words, cold and unfeeling, locked around her. “It’s me he wants. And if you’re killed in the chase, you’re just one less person to keep him from his blood money. Y’hear me?”
She glared at him.
“Take these off.” He bent and ripped off her sandals, one and then the other, and shoved them at her. “You’ll run better.”
She glanced downward. He wore no shoes, either, only filthy cotton socks. The rocky ground would be torture. Despair washed over her.
“Let’s go.” He took her wrist again, pulled her with him out of the shadows and into the wide expanse of the deserted quarry. He ran like a man driven by lunacy, with no regard for the pain from stones jutting into the soles of their feet, for the risks they were taking, for the consequences he would pay if they should get caught.
Hannah struggled to keep up. Landry kept her moving from the sheer force of
his speed, and it was only because of him they reached the carriage without her falling.
Nestled between a pair of detached buildings used as workshops for the inmates, the rig stood in readiness, ripe for the taking. Landry half-pushed, half-lifted her into the driver’s seat.
He heaved himself in next to her, his long body crowding her. She smelled his heat, his sweat, his urgency.
“Take the reins!” he hissed. His chest rose and fell, his breathing hard, labored. Perspiration rolled off his temples.
Fenwick’s Solution had begun taking its toll.
A shot rang out. She flinched. The bullet winged by and slammed into the side of the building with a muffled thud.
The team of horses, two fine blacks, lifted their heads and whinnied in alarm.
“Take the reins!” Landry dived for them at the same time she did, his hands closing over hers as she fumbled to unwrap the lines from around the brake. Terror gripped her, a very real fear of getting killed in this terrible place, under these circumstances, and all because of this crazed man.
She wasn’t ready to die. Not for him. Glory, she’d come too far for that.
She grasped the reins and slapped the horses’ backs. Landry gripped them, too, and the carriage took off hard, fast, tossing her back against the leather seat, knocking her wimple askew.
“Turn ‘em!” Landry snarled and jerked the leathers, his fading strength still superior to hers. The rig careened in a tight turn, throwing him into her shoulder, and she braced herself for both of them lest they tumble out the other side.
The pull of the reins strained the muscles in her forearms. If not for Landry, the team would have followed their own lead, and she’d have circled the quarry, blind to the one narrow passageway that would let them out.
From somewhere in the darkness, men yelled. Another shot rang out. And still another.
Hannah’s blood ran cold. She feared the bullets that could pelt her body at any moment. The team picked up speed, bolting like twin arrows toward the opening. She hung onto the reins with a death grip, to save her own life and Landry’s, and finally, the carriage hurtled past the penitentiary walls.
They were free. The horses found their stride, their harnesses jangling in the wind, their iron hooves pounding the rough ground in brisk staccato. The dark night surrounded them in all its silence.
Landry loosened his hold on the reins and fell back against the seat. His eyes closed; the strength seemed to ebb from his body. Their escape had cost him.
But not as much as it had Hannah.
Her life had taken a horrible turn. This savage named Landry had stolen everything from her: Sister Evangeline, Father Donovan, her haven in the convent. He’d torn apart her tidy, cloistered world.
Her glance slid toward him. His lean fingers encircled the stout club. His weapon, as terrifying as the syringe. He kept them both in readiness. He kept her, too, at his mercy, using her as he used his weapons.
Panic rose within her, stifling and suffocating.
She wasn’t safe anymore.
Chapter 3
The night sucked them in, swallowed them whole, and Hannah feared she’d never get out again.
The carriage raced deep into New Mexico Territory, so deep she lost her direction, so deep all sense of time and tenuous hope vanished. Her arms grew numb from their tight-fisted grip on the reins, and when she would have pleaded a stop to the wild ride, Landry barked a command to drive the team faster, harder.
The terrain changed, swelled into hills. The rig lurched and stumbled over jutting rocks. Juniper trees sprouted thick and tall, their needle-laden branches gouging the perfectly painted sides of Fenwick’s carriage, now sorely abused and covered with dust.
The horses labored in their climb, making their own trail over land not suited for an easy ride. Their sides heaved with the effort, their breathing heavy pants, their hides drenched with sweat.
Somehow, through the canopy of darkness and foliage, they found their way into a small clearing. Froth bubbled from their mouths. Hannah ventured an uneasy glance toward Landry. Forcing the weary animals to go further would kill them.
“Stop here,” he ordered.
Relieved, Hannah reined the team to a halt. Their noses lowered to the ground, and for the first time since their frenzied escape from the penitentiary, their harnesses fell silent.
“Get out.” Landry’s command sounded forced through his clenched teeth. With what looked to be a herculean effort, he pulled himself forward, swung one leg over the side of the rig, and nearly tumbled into a heap in the dirt. He clung to the edge of the seat.
She held her breath. He righted himself, his movements awkward, as if he could hardly will his muscles to work. In the end, he managed it, and leaning heavily against the carriage, he stood.
Hannah stared, her heart beating in trepidation of what he intended. She didn’t yet know what he was capable of, only that he was desperate, a madman in the grips of Fenwick’s Solution, and she had never been so vulnerable, a defenseless woman alone with him in the middle of nowhere.
Muted hues of moon-silver glimmered downward from the treetops, sheathing him in a faint light. His gaze lowered to his hand, balled tight in a fist. His breathing rasped in the silence, and his fingers loosened, revealing the syringe in his palm.
His glance lifted to hers. Alarm burst within her, a new fear of the awful weapon he used to hold her hostage.
His teeth bared in a snarl, and she drew back, a cry escaping her. He spun around, away from her, and hurled the syringe into the blackness, freeing himself, freeing her, of all that was left of Fenwick’s Solution.
Then, Landry swayed and crumpled to his knees. The club rolled from his grasp and he retched hard, violently, into the weeds. He groaned and retched again and again.
Hannah’s pulse drummed in her ears. Slowly, she slid to the end of the carriage seat and peered over the edge. She steeled herself against his agony.
Whatever his past sins, he paid dearly for them now. He heaved in mighty breaths, as if he feared each one his last. His hands clenched in protest to the indignity which left him helpless.
Helpless.
Hannah slid to the ground and slid her sandals onto her feet. She took a step back, then another. Lifting her skirt hems high, she pivoted and bolted from the clearing, plunging into the black night made even blacker by the congestion of pine trees and foliage.
Stinging needles plucked at her face and habit. She flung aside the branches in her path. Spikes of pain shot through her tender ankle, but she ignored them, too intent on finding her way down hill after hill, past tree after tree, away from Landry and Fenwick’s carriage.
Her lungs burned. She despaired over her troublesome sandals. Where was the path they’d taken, wide enough for the rig to pass through? Renewed panic flared deep within her breast. Nothing seemed familiar.
The toe of her sandal clipped a tree root, and she hurtled to the rocky ground and banged her knee. The air left her lungs with a whoosh.
A sob wrenched from her throat, and she gave in to a rush of hot tears. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be lost and frightened. She hadn’t wanted to go to the horrible penitentiary in the first place, and if it hadn’t been for Mother Superior’s test of her calling--.”
Her tears slowed.
Glory. The test.
She couldn’t fathom how or why she had been chosen for a trial of this magnitude. She knew only she must not fail; she must be strong; she must prove she was indeed worthy of the name ‘Sister Ariel’, and with it, a life of safety and solitude in the convent.
In her self-pity, she’d forgotten about Pa. Her heart ached. He’d never tolerated self-pity when times were tough, and God knew they’d had plenty of tough times. Instead, he’d taught her to think of a better plan.
Using the cuff of her brown wool sleeve, she swiped the last of the tears from her cheeks. She pressed a fervent kiss to the wooden cross about her neck. Her head cleared. She stood, s
traightened her wimple and brushed at the pine needles clinging to her habit.
A stream babbled gently nearby. She squatted at the edge, dipped her hands into the cold water, and pressed them to her face.
She’d left Landry at his weakest, too weak to be a threat to her now. He wouldn’t survive the ravages of Fenwick’s Solution much longer.
She’d go back to him. He deserved to die with a degree of dignity, with someone at his side. Afterward, she’d find her way back to the monastery. Mother Superior would be frantic with worry.
Bolstered by the plan, Hannah soaked the lower front of her habit in the stream and wrung out the excess water. Holding the wet fabric in her hand lest it drag in the dirt and leaves, she wound her way amongst the juniper trees and climbed the hills again.
She found him much as she’d left him--on the ground in a heap.
The vomiting had stopped, but Landry lay so motionless Hannah feared he’d died already. She approached him slowly, regret building within her that she’d not returned soon enough.
She knelt beside him and detected a slight movement, his back lifting when he took a breath, and she knew he lived, but just barely.
Still, she delayed touching him, his ruthlessness, his savagery, still too fresh in her memory. She’d not forgotten he threatened to kill her.
But the poison in Fenwick’s Solution weakened him. Stole his strength, his power, and for now, at least, he was unable to kill anyone. Including her. Mustering her courage, she grasped his shoulder with both hands and rolled him onto his back.
He groaned, her name slipping from him on a labored breath. Perspiration streamed off his forehead. His eyes remained closed.
“I’m here,” she said quietly and pressed the wet portion of her skirt to his cheeks and temples. Heat emanated from him.
He shivered. She worked to cool the fever, running the wool over his face and neck, until she could do little more than wait for his time to come. He moaned and shivered again. She unclasped her cloak and spread it over him, tucking the edges snugly around his long body.
He slept heavily. She rose and tended the horses; afterward, she explored the interior of the carriage and found nothing more than an umbrella, a locked metal box and a thick blanket. She pulled the wrapping around her shoulders and returned to Landry.