by Pam Crooks
His glazed eyes bored into her. He waited.
“And I need you.” It galled her to say the words. “You’re the only one who can prove my innocence against the warden’s lies.”
“So?”
“We make a deal.”
“A deal.”
“Your life for mine.”
His brow arched in wary surprise.
“I’ll help you survive, and God willing, you’ll settle your score. And you . . ..” Her words trailed off.
“What, Hannah? What do you expect of me?” he taunted.
She hadn’t thought it’d be so difficult to swallow her pride and rely upon a man of Landry’s caliber. But she was desperate, and she had no one else.
“I expect you to return to the convent and help me to convince Mother Superior I haven’t killed anyone.”
His eyes closed. “What if I refuse?”
He was toying with her. She thought of Pa and all she’d learned from him.
“Do not underestimate me, Mr. Landry,” she said softly.
He swiveled his harsh gaze over her once more. “Nor you me, Hannah.”
A long moment passed between them. She refused to be the first to speak.
“Regardless of what you think, I’m a man of my word,” he said finally. “We have a deal.”
She kept her relief bottled inside her. “Thank you.”
“But if you betray me, you’ll pay the price. I swear it.”
“I’m no fool, Mr. Landry.”
He scowled at that. “And from now on, call me Quinn.”
His command took her by surprise. “Under the circumstances, I hardly think it proper to be on a first name basis.”
“You heard me.”
“I refuse to call you anything else but Landry.”
“It’s been four years since anyone has used my given name.” Bitterness seeped through his proclamation. “Call me Quinn, Hannah.”
Her rebellion lingered, but she fought it down. She understood his desire and would do as he asked. But she had a rule of her own.
“My name is Sister Ariel,” she said. It didn’t matter she’d not quite earned the honor, that she had months of study and prayer and devotion ahead of her when she returned to the convent. After what she’d been through, the issue was moot. “You’re not to call me anything else. Agreed?”
Something flickered within the fever-bright depths of his eyes. Amusement?
“The priest called you Hannah.”
“He’s–was–my friend. You’re not.”
“Sister Ariel is a mouthful. I prefer Hannah.”
“What you prefer doesn’t matter, Mr. Landry.”
His head turned. His lids closed. “Are you always so stubborn and narrow-minded, Hannah?”
Irritation shot through her. She’d not exchange another word with him. She pivoted with a flair of her skirts. His eyes flew open again.
“Where’re you going?” he asked with a growl, snatching a fistful of wool, halting her.
“To find the horses,” she said.
“And then?”
“Re-hitch them to the carriage.”
Skepticism flitted over his pale features. “A tough job for a woman by herself.”
“I think I can manage easier than you.”
His expression darkened, as if the truth in her words reminded him all over again how Fenwick’s Solution had plundered his strength, and he resented it more than ever.
“If you try to escape me,” he said, the words cold with warning. “I’ll find you. And you’d best hope it’s me who finds you first. Before Briggs and Titus. Or the wolf-dogs.”
She suppressed a shiver and refused to give him the pleasure of knowing she dreaded another encounter with any of them.
“One more thing.”
She waited, her back straight, her chin tilted high.
“I’m sorry about your friends.” His voice was low, rough. “It was a helluva way for them to die.”
Instant tears sprang to her eyes. Her throat clogged with emotion. For their loss. For his unexpected expression of civility. For the genuineness of his sympathy.
She blinked rapidly and made no reply. Abruptly he released her skirt.
“The horses are at the stream,” he said. “They should be easy enough to fetch.”
She managed a jerky nod and impatiently swiped at a stubborn tear. She glanced over her shoulder. The animals drank at the water’s edge and grazed on the grass lining the bank.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said stiffly and headed toward the horses, the absurdity of her reassurance ringing in her ears.
By the time Hannah returned to the bank with the carriage properly harnessed and ready for travel, the sun shone warm and bright in the sky. Quinn Landry lay in the same spot she had left him, in an exhausted sleep and oblivious to her arrival. Mindful of her sore ankle, she dismounted from the buggy with care and studied him quietly.
Whatever tasks he performed in the penitentiary had obviously required great strength. His uniform molded to his legs, outlining the corded muscles of his thighs. Though lean and spare, his body showed agility and power—even when ravaged by Fenwick’s Solution. Her gaze travelled upward and halted over that part of him which bulged, boldly proclaiming his masculinity.
Her pulse fluttered. It’d been so long since she’d looked at a man or thought of his privates. She detested the blush this one evoked from her.
She steered her perusal higher to safer ground, skimming over his flat belly and settling on the breadth of his shoulders. Dark hairs curled over the collar of his shirt, hinting at a chest similarly colored. She quickly chased the appealing image from her thoughts.
In rest, his features hinted of a handsome man, an impression shadowed by several days’ growth of beard and a harshness from his time in the penitentiary. His hand still clutched the club, the other rested palm up in the grass. His fingers curled loosely, relaxed. The gashes on his forearm reared up ugly against his sun-baked skin.
They must pain him. She remembered again the risks he’d taken to deter the raging wolf-dog. Her glance swept the hills for a sign of Briggs—a horse on the horizon, a glint off a rifle barrel—and found nothing. Her instincts told her for now, at least, they were safe.
She sank to the grass beside him. Landry rolled over and moaned. She watched him dubiously, but he made no other sound. His eyes remained closed, and he lay very still. She’d give him a few more minutes to rest.
In the ensuing quiet, she soaked in the sun’s warmth and removed her sandals, then rolled down her thick cotton stockings. Her fingers prodded the swelling about her ankle, and she grimaced, but the injury could have been worse. She wiggled her bare toes, reddened but growing warmer, and placed the stockings side by side in the grass with their garters.
A soft breeze tousled the hair at her temples. So odd not to wear a veil, she mused, yet she relished the feel and raked her fingers through the short curls.
Mother Superior herself had chopped off Hannah’s long tresses, thick and shining and the color of amber. If Pa had seen the cutting, he would’ve been heartbroken. Hannah admitted seeing the heap of strands on the floor all those months ago was difficult. Her hair had been her one concession to vanity.
But she’d adjusted. Wearing a veil and a wimple stole away the desire to fuss over its short length. It was ironic that a man like Landry would be the first to see her bareheaded in nearly a year.
Irritation followed the reminder of the abrupt change her life had taken because of him. Along with it, a renewed impatience to take back all she’d worked so hard to attain.
“Quinn,” she said and reached over to give him a little shake. “It’s time to go.”
At her touch, his body jerked and coiled, like a cobra ready to strike. He turned glazed eyes on her, as if he didn’t really see her, as if he still remained in a darker world.
“Quinn, it’s only me,” she said gently.
At the sound of her voice, a lo
ng breath escaped his lungs, an expulsion of the demons lurking inside him. “God, Hannah.”
“I’m sorry I startled you.”
“I thought--I was sure--.”
“It’s okay.” She didn’t know what tortured him, but clearly his life in the penitentiary hadn’t been pleasant. Did Briggs haunt him? His own guilty conscience?
Or Fenwick’s Solution?
She preferred to think it was the sickness he battled, not the memories of a murderer.
“How do you feel?” she asked after a long moment.
“Lousy.”
“Is there something I can do?”
He glanced at her, his lids heavy with fatigue.
“My belly’s tied in knots. My head’s ‘bout ready to explode. And I’m on fire from fever. If you can think of somethin’, then do it.”
Hannah stiffened at his cross response. He hardly deserved her concern.
She remembered seeing a canteen on the floor of the carriage and left him to get it. After a thorough rinse in the stream, she filled the container with clear, cold water and offered him a drink. He sucked the liquid down like a man parched and seemed to feel better for it.
When it appeared he’d not up-end his stomach again, she moved away to refill the canteen, but he caught her bare foot in his grasp. His frowning gaze skimmed over her injured ankle.
“How did this happen?” he asked.
“It’s nothing,” she answered and tried to wrest her leg from him.
He kept his clasp firm, yet took care not to touch the swelling. “You’ve sprained it.”
“Yes,” she agreed and finally pulled free. “At the penitentiary.”
“You should have told me.”
She rolled her eyes. “After the way you treated me?”
He scowled. “I’ve yet to hurt you.”
“But you’d like to, wouldn’t you?” One by one, his threats over the past hours marched through her memory.
He eyed her, the look of the devil in his eyes. “I don’t make a habit of abusing women.” He paused, baiting her. “Most of the time.”
A vexed huff escaped her. She plucked her sandals and stockings from the grass and pulled them on. “You’re a horrid man, Quinn Landry.”
“Yeah, well. You’d best get used to it.”
Another huff left her, this one less irate. “It seems fate has given me little choice, doesn’t it?”
Without waiting to hear another of his mocking taunts, she filled the canteen to the brim, screwed the lid on tight, and turned to find him struggling to stand. He swayed, tried to catch his balance, and she hastened to help him lest he fall. She was of no mind to set a broken bone along with everything else that ailed him.
“I suggest, Mr. Landry, that you go easy until you have your strength back.”
He made a sound of impatience. “I have matters to attend to.”
His arm hooked around her shoulders. She braced her feet to take his weight, her own arm curling around his waist. His body leaned heavily against hers.
“Did you never learn revenge is a sin?” she demanded, tilting her head back to challenge him. Up close, his unshaven cheeks gave him the look of a pirate, ruthless and dangerous. The stench of the prison lingered on him.
“Revenge is what keeps me alive,” he said with a growl.
She clucked her tongue and urged him to the carriage. “It will kill you. And me along with you.”
“I aim to see that it doesn’t.”
He heaved himself into the driver’s seat and collapsed against the tufted leather cushion. Hannah crawled up beside him, shook out the blanket and spread it over him. After taking the reins, she paused, the uncertainty of her future looming before her.
She’d become a pawn in Quinn’s quest to settle a bitter score, a game piece he used to get what he wanted, uncaring of the cost of safety or the loss of her refuge at the convent.
But she would see an end to their bargain and survive Mother Superior’s test in the process. Her grip tightened on the reins.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
For a long minute, he didn’t answer. She sensed he worked through the revenge in his heart, nurtured it, savored it.
“Follow the Pecos River,” he said finally. “We’re going to Amarillo.”
They travelled the rest of the morning and all afternoon, until the air cooled and the horses grew tired, until Hannah’s stomach rumbled persistent reminders she’d not eaten at all that day, and very little the one before.
She tried not to think of the two friends she’d lost in death. Instead she centered her thoughts on Briggs and his determination to hunt Quinn and herself down, and the consequences they’d endure should he find them.
Though the New Mexico Territory numbered few in population, word would spread quickly about the penitentiary breakout and killings. It wouldn’t be long before the whole countryside was up in arms looking for them both. Even more worrisome, her wool habit and Quinn’s tattered uniform were dead giveaways.
Her glance slid to him. Burrowed under the blanket, his body rocking in time with the carriage, he slept again, trusting her to take him in the direction he bade. He hadn’t exchanged a word with her since they left. Hannah was glad for it. Her troublesome thoughts were enough to keep her mind occupied.
She followed a vague northeasterly course, keeping the Pecos River in sight to find her way as he’d instructed. But with the sun already resting on the horizon, they had to stop. Cold penetrated her clothing. She longed for a blazing fire and plate full of hot food. And hours and hours of sleep.
She braked the carriage near a thicket dense enough to shelter them from sight and dismounted. Quinn stirred, opened one eye and frowned down on her.
Hannah’s chin lifted. She knew what he was thinking.
“We’ve travelled enough for one day,” she said firmly. “I’m tired. So are the horses.”
“A few more hours,” he commanded.
“No.” Fatigue, sore muscles and a hungry belly spurred her to refuse him. “I’m not getting back in that rig until morning.”
“Hannah.” The word rumbled in warning.
“Go if you want.” She made a shooing motion. “I’ll gladly stay behind. And if you like, I’ll feed and water the team so you can drive them until they drop.” She planted her hands on her hips. “It’s up to you.”
He glared at her through bloodshot eyes. “A little testy, are we?”
“What’ll it be, Mr. Landry? Water the horses? Or hobble them?”
“You’re a stubborn woman, Hannah.”
He made no further argument, and she knew she’d won this round. Keenly aware of his brooding gaze upon her, she set about unharnessing the team. He tossed aside the blanket and moved from his seat. His hands gripped the edge, the knuckles turning white.
“I can tend the horses myself,” she said, watching him, her concern growing.
He pulled forward and swung down to the ground, swayed and caught himself.
“I’m not kin to a woman working while I do . . . nothing,” he said through clenched teeth.
“It didn’t bother you last night when I tended them alone,” she pointed out. “Nor this morning when I hitched them to the rig.”
As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She hadn’t meant them to sound so cold.
“I’m sorry.” Hannah abandoned the harnesses. “You were just as sick then as you are now. I don’t mind doing the chores.” She reached for the blanket. “Come over here and lie down. The grass is soft enough.”
“I’m not a suckling babe, Hannah. I’ll help, damn it.”
He was as mule-headed as Pa had ever been. “All right, then.” She handed him two sets of leather hobbles, the swivel chains clinking. “You can put these on them.”
His reproving glance revealed he knew she gave him the easy end of the job, but he took them anyway. Yet his fingers fumbled with the buckles. Sweat beaded his brow.
Watching him, Hannah pondered
for the hundredth time how much longer he could survive. Murderer or not, he needed something to eat and care far better than she could give him. They had nothing with which to get through the night except for Fenwick’s umbrella, his canteen and blanket, and a black metal box.
The box.
She headed for the carriage. Dusk had settled, tossing long shadows into what sunlight remained. Hannah strained to see inside the rig and leaned in as far as she could, one hand groping behind the driver’s seat.
She located the box and found it surprisingly heavy. She gave it a hearty shake and heard the rustling of items inside.
A sturdy lock kept her from the contents. She returned to the rig and searched for the key, her fingers skimming over the floor, up the sides, under the seat.
But, of course, she didn’t find one. Fenwick wasn’t that stupid.
She sat cross-legged on the ground, the box in front of her. It was made of tempered steel, too solid to jimmy apart without the proper tools. She studied the lock and recognized its make. A set of bar-keys wouldn’t work, even if she had them.
But a widdy would.
The knowledge came rushing back in a torrent too powerful to stop, memories of skills she’d learned under her father’s watchful eye, tricks she’d vowed never to use again.
But tonight, she had to. To survive.
Hannah returned to the carriage again, retrieved Fenwick’s umbrella, and opened it. She bent one of the wires, wiggled it back and forth until the metal snapped, then tossed the umbrella aside.
She sat on the ground again and fashioned a loop on one end of the wire. All she needed next was a length of fine cord.
She hesitated.
The cord stringing her rosary beads would complete the widdy, but to destroy something so sacred to burglarize another man’s belongings . . ..
Mother Superior would be mortified.
But Hannah assured herself that if the abbess were cold and hungry and holed up in the middle of New Mexico Territory with an accused murderer, she’d do the same thing. Surely, this was all part of the test? Finding a way to survive?
Hannah removed the rosary from her waist and broke the cord; the beads slid off into a pile in the grass. She formed a tight knot on the unlooped end of the wire. At last, the widdy was finished.