The Talisman - Crisscross
Page 44
Trish exited the cool darkness of the saloon, intending to go get Yedi. She glanced to the east to judge how long until the sun would rise. She hurried across the bridge, not taking the time to notice the water racing beneath it. At the livery, she ducked inside to get Yedi’s bridle and her saddle. In the distance, a rider approached. She watched and gasped. Quinn was on his way to her. He couldn't see her vanish. She'd waited too long to start on her way. Panic swept over her.
Trish scrambled to get Yedi saddled and ready. She had to reach the trees before Quinn saw her. Then she had to pray that she would find a clearing or at least catch the sun's rays before he found her.
She led Yedi out of his corral. The slick leather of her boots’ soles offered little traction. She slipped and caught herself on Yedi’s bridle. A fleeting wish for running shoes crossed her mind. Focusing on the line of trees forty yards away, Trish swung her leg up over Yedi and focused her energy on their needed sprint. The first rays of sunlight pierced the morning before Trish reached the trees. She bent low over Yedi’s neck, urging him to go faster and turned around to glance toward the saloon. A quail took flight, bursting from the trees. She saw Quinn glance her direction as he dismounted. He paused, then remounted. He must have seen her. Alarm resurfaced, her heart pounding in her ears. A patch of sunlight came into view. She adjusted Yedi’s course. She had to reach it fast. Her heart thundering in her ears, she wasn't sure she heard hoof beats that didn’t belong to Yedi. She knew he was coming. She wrapped trembling fingers around the chain at her neck, drawing the talisman to the light. She glanced down. It danced in the sunlight.
"Trish," Quinn called.
She must do it… she took the talisman into her hands.
Quinn couldn't believe his eyes. He could have sworn it was her and Yedi that he saw in the trees and he had hurried to her. He had a bit to say to her after last night. If it wasn't her he had seen, what was it? He dismounted and leaving his horse ground tied, pushed into the thick stand of trees. He found footprints and they could have been Yedi's. His hopes dashed when he lost her trail. Standing in the flickering of sun and shade from dancing leaves, Quinn called again.
"Trish," he called. No answer. "Trish."
Hoodwinked by a filly. Had he blinked? No. He felt like a greenhorn. He so rarely lost a trail, but then, maybe he did and just didn't realize it. She wasn't a lost calf or belligerent cow.
Puzzled, he returned to his horse. She was probably still in bed where he'd left her. Yesterday… So much had happened. He rode to the saloon and tied his horse at the hitching rail. Pierre didn't like folks coming in at this hour, but Quinn pushed the doors open and slunk across the saloon floor boards. At the steps, he paused, looking up at her door. He climbed the steps ever so carefully. He stopped at her door, his hand raised to rap on it and stopped. Had he really held a knife to Trish's throat? He turned an unsavory oath on himself. No woman could equate such actions to courtship, no matter how rugged the country or the man. He knew better. His sweet mama must have climbed plumb outta her grave and worn a path across the heavens in embarrassment the whole day long.
Ashamed of his crude behavior, he returned to his horse, remounted and turned toward home, using the time on the trail to pray to his beloved mama for forgiveness and a glimpse of the life he should live.
Arriving at home further dampened his spirits. A neighbor, probably Noble, had deposited an ornery little mule at his place in the early morning light. Noble had said the colt needed its best friend to make training easier and Quinn had refused, but the mule stood there in the round pen with the colt, their heads down as they slept. The worst part wasn't the mule's presence but the memories its being there engendered. Old Curly.
Could it be that weeks of sleep deprivation tending cattle on a sun-scorched land had brought on his rough and unpolished behavior? Had he killed Old Curly for no better reason than believing he held a woman prisoner? That wasn't like him to deal out justice without proof.
His actions sickened him. He'd proven his character no better than the lowliest of dogs and even a dog didn't kill in cold blood.
He dropped his horse's reins and stood in the morning light, willing himself to remember. Killing wasn't new to him. He and Albert had killed to protect kith and kin. But now? Had he developed some kind of insane blood lust? He didn't think so.
And what of Albert's death? If he couldn't find proof of the murderer, could Quinn live with himself? Turning a blind eye wasn't in Quinn's nature any more than cold blooded murder.
"No." Quinn found his knife in his hand. He scowled, reacting without thought. The knife flew across the arena, sinking to the hilt in the soft pine timber on the far side. "What is done is done. Curly deserved what he got. Albert's murderer will too. I swear it." He sunk to his knees as waves of passion, doubt, and horror at what he had become wracked his soul.
Chapter 35
Present