“Good God.” Grey’s fears escalated. No sane—or innocent—person said things like that.
Taylor continued. “I am not accusing anyone, but your mother and my uncle … they watch me. I know they do not like me, even though they pretend they do. I can feel their hatred.”
“Taylor, surely you don’t think—”
“Please.” She held a hand up to stop him from speaking. “There is more.” She took a deep breath. “Aunt Camilla has again been sick. Amanda is afraid for her, that someone is trying to harm her.”
“What?” Grey abruptly sat up and grabbed Taylor’s arm. “Harm her? Who would—how?”
Taylor calmly looked at his hand gripping her arm and then met his gaze. “Amanda fears her mother’s sudden illness may not be an illness … but poisoning. A slow poisoning.”
Grey’s blood ran cold. “How could Amanda know that, that it would be poisoning?”
“She spoke in private with her mother’s doctor. He told her he could not explain Aunt Camilla’s illness. But he said he’d seen the same symptoms as hers in only one other patient, and that patient had died a lingering death.” She put her hand over his and squeezed it reassuringly. Sympathy shone in her blue eyes. “Grey, the doctor said the other patient was … your father.”
Her words hit him like a physical blow. “But it was his heart that killed him. The doctor said—” The words had been automatic … until a sudden memory assailed Grey, leaving him feeling sick and weak. “Oh, no. The doctor didn’t say that at all. Not to me, at any rate. It was Mother who said he’d told her that.”
This was too much. The world around him, even Taylor, seemed to recede for Grey as he struggled internally with the awful possibilities she had just presented him. Could his mother and Stanley James truly be murderers? Were they killing their spouses slowly so as not to be suspected and in order to be together? Grey fought hard not to believe it of them. He assured himself that if it were true, he would certainly have heard of his mother and Stanley’s liaison from the gossips in St. Louis.
Then he remembered some awful truths he knew of his own. Both families were originally from Boston. Stanley and Charles had moved here first. And then Grey’s father had moved them here from Boston at his mother’s insistence. That meant that no one here knew of their past together. And if they were careful, then no one would suspect them of … being lovers.
But if they were so in love, why hadn’t his mother and Stanley James married each other to begin with? But he knew. Money. The James fortune stemmed from Camilla’s inheritance, just as Grey’s own fortune had come from his father. His mother had none of her own before her marriage. Money. Filthy money. What would people not do for money? As if it were in answer to his question, it popped into Grey’s mind that his father had not been ill until they’d moved here. Oh, God, it’s true.
Tormented beyond belief, Grey shook his head. It was too much to take in all at once, that his mother could possibly be so evil. His mind simply refused to register the notion. No. Not the woman who gave me life and raised me. Impossible. It has to be. But what if it was true? What then should he do, think, believe? Adding to Grey’s concern was Stanley’s confrontation of Taylor and the names he’d called her. Her uncle evidently knew the truth about Taylor. So where would this treachery end? When they were all dead? Or just when Camilla James, Charles James, and Taylor were?
Grey exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. He blinked, coming back to the moment and realizing he was still staring at Taylor. On an impulse, he reached out and stroked her smooth cheek. Her blue eyes sparked with questions. A sad smile came to Grey’s face, all the way from his heart. Her beautiful face, so close to his, a face he already loved with every bit of his being, looked like that of a vulnerable child. That’s exactly what she was, too. Charles James’s vulnerable child. Because if what Amanda suspected was true, no wonder Charles wanted his daughter gone from here as fast as possible. She’d most likely be next—and probably not by intermittent poisonings.
“I have hurt you,” she said quietly. “It is in your eyes.”
He shook his head and took her hand in his, holding it tightly. “No. You didn’t hurt me. Instead, the things that you had to tell me did.” Just then, resolve solidified inside Grey as he stared at Taylor’s slender hand. She had to leave here. To hell with her talk of the ways of a coward and staying to face the danger here. To hell with it all. He’d make her go. He’d give her no choice in the matter. In essence, he had to love her enough to send her away.
“Taylor,” he began, raising his head to look into her blue eyes. “I want you to leave now. Just go away from here. I will give you all the money you need. Just … go. And I don’t want you to tell anyone where you’re going. Not even me.”
Withdrawing her hand from his, Taylor stared at him, her expression inscrutable. Not a muscle twitched in her face. She was dry-eyed, breathing calmly. Then, still sitting cross-legged, she rose in one willowy motion, leveraging herself up by the strength in her legs. She stood there, looking down at him.
Grey wanted to die. He put a hand out to her, but she drew back … away from his touch. Defeated, he lowered his hand. “Taylor, listen to me. I’m not angry with you. And this has nothing to do with what you said about my mother. I swear it. It’s just that you need to leave now for the same reason you needed to leave before. Your life is in danger. You know it is. We all do.”
Grey knew she would never know what a kindness he had just done her. But he hated himself—and wasn’t too sure he wouldn’t leap off this very bluff behind him once she rode away.
“If you wish me to go, then I will go.” Her expression was stony. “And I do not want your money. I will go to my father or to Aunt Camilla.”
A sense of urgency seized Grey. “No, that won’t do. You know better—”
Red Sky whinnied loudly, sounding an alarm. Taylor jerked around. Grey did the same. Both horses had their heads up, their ears pricked forward. They stared toward the woods. Frowning, fearful, his heart suddenly pounding, Grey searched the tree line for whatever might have—
There! Off to their right … what was that?
In less than a fraction of a second, Grey recognized what he was seeing. A gasp from Taylor told him she did, as well.
Sunlight glinted off gunmetal.
“Get down!” Grey yelled, snaking his arm out and hitting Taylor hard behind her knees. He knocked her feet out from under her. She was too perfect a target standing there. Just as she hit the blanket on her back and her breath left her in a pained grunt, a shot rang out. Searing pain ripped into Grey—and the world went black.
Chapter Seventeen
Still on her back, Taylor lay there on the blanket, stunned. Grey had been hit. There was nothing she could do for him—not while they were still under fire. The high-pitched whine of two more shots had already rung out. One exploded the empty wine bottle on the blanket, sending shards of glass flying in all directions. Taylor curled defensively but got nicked on a cheek. She felt blood trickling down her face. The other bullet pinged into the ground just to one side of her and shot a clod of grass and dirt out of the ground. And still she couldn’t get her breath back from Grey knocking her down.
Still another shot rang out. A bullet flew by about an inch above her head.
To hell with breathing. Taylor rolled onto her belly and ripped her gun out of its holster. Bracing her elbows on the ground, she held her six-shooter in both hands and began firing. The horses had shied back and were now at a distance but still in the clearing. Taylor aimed for the spot where she’d last seen the sunlight on the gunmetal glare—and began shooting, systematically aiming her shots along the trees in a straight line, first to one side of where she’d seen the rifle barrel and then to the other. Her reasoning was that whoever was out there—she believed there was only one man—most likely had moved by now. But in which direction she had no way of knowing. So she did all she could to keep him moving, keep him from getting another
shot off.
On her fifth shot, she heard what she’d been listening … praying, hoping … for—a grunt and a cry of pain. She stopped shooting and … listened and watched. Seconds ticked by. She saw nothing, heard nothing. But she didn’t move, didn’t relax her guard. The shooter’s grunt of pain could be a ploy, meant to get her to do just that. But she believed she had hit him. Where and how bad, she didn’t know. So she had to assume that, though wounded and now more dangerous, he remained capable of firing his gun. So, with the blood from the glass and the sweat of fear mingling with that of the day’s heat and running down her face, she waited.
It was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Her heart pounded with fear for Grey. Every instinct in her begged for her to turn to him, to see where he was hit, to see if he was alive or dead, to see if and how she could help him. He was so quiet and still, it was scary. But she didn’t dare give in to those urges right now. She’d certainly be no good to him dead.
“Come on, you rotten son of a bitch,” Taylor muttered, aiming her comment at her unknown assailant hidden among the trees. She directed her trained gaze in a sweep of the sun-dappled shadows before her. “Show yourself, you fu—”
A movement in the trees, no more than a flash of color, alerted Taylor. She riveted her gaze to the spot. The shooter staggered out of the woods. Taylor licked nervously at her lips as she flexed her hands around her gun. She had one more bullet before she’d have to reload. She wasn’t about to be stupid now and waste it. Blood poured down the man’s shirtfront. Good. He was clutching at his chest as he reeled a few steps toward her. Taylor pulled the hammer back on her gun. The man went to his knees … and then keeled over, face-first, onto the ground. For long moments, he didn’t move. Neither did Taylor. She’d hadn’t lived this long, given the life of an outlaw she’d chosen for herself, by being rash or stupid in past situations exactly like this one. Caution was the key. That and a well-trained horse.
Taylor called out sharply in Cherokee to Red Sky and then whistled. The paint stared her way for a split second, gave a high-pitched whinny that shied Grey’s horse, and then burst into a thundering gallop toward the downed man. If the man was alive and heard all that coming his way, he’d give up his game quickly enough. He didn’t move. Red Sky sailed easily over him, no more than if he’d been a felled log, and circled back toward Taylor in a canter. Just as her horse stopped beside the blanket, Taylor released her gun’s hammer and stood up, satisfied the man was dead. Quickly she holstered her gun and bent over Grey, her heart in her throat as she gently turned him toward her.
“Oh no,” she breathed out in a ragged whisper.
His face and the side of his head were covered in blood that still trickled down his cheek and neck. Taylor put a hand to her mouth, as much to stifle a scream of despair as to keep back the bile that rose in her throat. Grey had been shot in the head. Taking a deep breath, forcing a calm on herself she didn’t feel, she put her hand on his chest, pressing down hard enough to detect his heartbeat … if there was one. There was.… A good, steady beat pumped under her hand. Weak with relief, Taylor said a silent thank-you and quickly pulled out her shirttail from her pants. She unbuttoned it enough to give her a length she could use to wipe away what blood she could from his face. She told herself she’d give anything right now for a good bottle of liquor—to use to clean the wound. She then looked closely at the wound and probed its edges.
Another thank-you was sent upward to the heavens. Grey had been grazed just above his left temple, nothing more. The wound was not deep or even long but had packed enough punch to knock him out cold—and to scare her out of ten years’ growth. He’d have one hell of a headache for a few days and a scar to show his grandchildren. Amused and disheartened by that thought—his grandchildren would not be hers—she set about cleaning him up as best she could. She unsheathed her knife, tugged his clean, white shirttail out, and cut it into narrow strips, which she then fashioned into a bandage around his head. Done with that, she tried to wake him, smacking his cheeks and calling his name.
Finally he stirred, flailing his arms, fighting, and calling out, “No! Taylor!” and generally sounding confused and in pain.
She dodged his awkward blows and held his arms down—or tried to. “Grey! Stop it. It is me—Taylor. You’ve been shot. Be still. You will cause your wound to bleed, stupid white man. Do not fight me.” Only when a tear splashed onto his face did she realize she was crying … out of relief and love. Instantly she dragged her shirtsleeve across her eyes, denying the tears that wet the fabric. Only weak old women cried.
Grey jerked and then tensed. His eyes popped open. “Taylor?” he called out hoarsely, searching for her, trying to sit up.
Taylor instantly leaned over him, using her weight and her hands pressed against his chest to hold him down. “Be still. You will cause your wound to bleed.”
“My wound?” He looked at her as if he had no idea who she was.
Taylor had seen this before. For a time after a blow to the head, a person could talk and act crazy. At least, Monroe had done so after she’d hit him with the butt of her gun because he’d backhanded her for saying no to his sexual advances. Thankfully, the next day, when he’d again become himself, he hadn’t remembered what had happened—and she hadn’t reminded him. “Yes. Your wound, Grey. You were shot. Do you remember?”
His eyes cleared, his gaze focused—and he gasped, grabbing for her, tugging her atop him, holding her close. “My God, Taylor, someone shot at us. Are you OK?” He held her back from him, frantically looking her over. His eyes widened. “There’s blood on your face.”
She grabbed his searching hand and put it to his own head, to the bandages there. “Yes. It is nothing. But you, Grey—you were shot. Not me. I am fine. And so are you. Do you understand me?” She watched him search her face and then nod that he did. “Good. Stay here. I have to go see—”
Grey grabbed her by her shirtfront. “The man who shot at us. Where is he? Did he get away?”
Taylor cupped his fisted hand in hers and held it to her chest. “No, he did not. He shot you, and so I killed him.”
Grey stared at her soberly. She wondered what he thought of her, a woman who had now killed four men and could so callously speak of taking a life. Then he smiled. “I would have done the same thing, Taylor. I would have emptied my gun into the son of a bitch.”
She fought a grin of her own. “Then I am ashamed, for I have one bullet left.”
He started to laugh but abruptly grimaced, putting a hand to his head. “Damn, that hurt.”
“And it will for many days. Stay here.” She patted his shoulder. “I wish to go see who our friend was.”
Grey clutched at her arm. His expression was dead serious. “Taylor, you know he probably meant to shoot you and not me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Help me up. I want to go with you. No—don’t argue. I’m going. I want to see the bastard’s face, see if I know him.”
“All right.” Resigned, Taylor put his arm around her shoulders and struggled with his weight as she tried to help him leverage himself upright to a stand. Then she stood with him a moment until his wave of dizziness passed. When he said he felt steadier, she slowly walked him across the clearing and toward the downed man. With Grey’s muscled arm still around her slender shoulders, his long-fingered hand clutched her upper arm so tightly she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. But she did not protest. He needed her, and she would gladly bear this pain.
Finally, they had crossed the rocky, grassy, uneven ground of the meadow and stood looking down at the man. Taylor stood in silence next to Grey. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot. The man on the ground jiggled limply. Taylor let go of Grey in order to turn the shooter over onto his back. When she did, she took a moment to note her handiwork—she’d got him right through the heart. It was as it should be. She brushed the grass and dirt off her hands onto her pants and again stood with Grey. The dead man had reddish hair a
nd blankly staring brown eyes. Taylor’s mouth curved into a grimace of anger—at herself.
“Well, I’ve never seen him before,” Grey remarked.
“I have,” Taylor said, her anger tightening her chest, making it hard to breathe.
“You? Where?”
“In the park when I was riding with Amanda and Franklin.” She pointed to the dead man on the ground. “He is the man I said was following me. I should have slit his throat right then, like I told him I would.”
Taylor looked up at Grey, so tall and handsome—and bloodstained. A jagged shard of pure and deep emotion ripped through her. She’d nearly lost Grey to this coward of an assassin who now lay dead on the ground at her feet. She would never forgive herself for not dealing with him as she should have the first time. Neither would she forgive those who had hired him. They would pay.
* * *
“I just can’t get over it, Son. My dear God, you could have been killed!”
“As you’ve said about ten times, Mother. I’m fully aware of what almost happened. Were it not for Taylor’s quick thinking—”
“Her quick thinking?” Augusta Talbott turned to the freshly bathed and dressed Taylor, who sat quietly in a corner of Grey’s parlor while his family and hers made over him and got the details of the afternoon’s excitement. “It was probably you”—she pointed an accusing finger at Taylor—“that awful man was trying to kill when he got my son instead.”
A shocked silence filled the room. Stung though she was by the woman’s ungrateful rebuke, Taylor agreed. “I believe as you do.”
Then she concentrated on watching everyone’s reaction to this exchange. Someone in this room crowded with Jameses and Talbotts wanted her dead … and she wanted to know who it was and why. The only one not present was Aunt Camilla, who had stayed home because she was feeling poorly again … according to Uncle Stanley. Taylor had exchanged a worried glance with Grey when her uncle had arrived with Amanda and made that announcement. Taylor looked now into Grey’s eyes—he was smiling warmly at her, which gave her the courage to add, “I wish it had been me he’d shot.”
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