by Tia Dani
"You want me to come along?"
"Sure." He glanced over her costume then down at his own. "No sense taking the time to change. We won't be long."
Libby shadowed her father down the narrow sidewalk leading to the large barn where he kept his new pickup.
As he reached the double doors, he paused. "By the way, are you ready for tomorrow?"
"The reenactment? Sure am." Libby giggled. "You should have seen Jenny tonight. Sashaying around in the dress her mother made, saying..."
Libby swayed back and forth, imitating her cousin's drawl, "I'm sooo proud it was a Domé who led those poor, brave men to fight and save the stage station from blood-thirsty savages."
Theo chuckled and opened the pickup's passenger door. "Sounds like Jenny, all right. What did Harry's boy have to say? I'm sure he didn't let a remark like that go unattended."
"He didn't. Richard said if it hadn't of been for his Great-great-grandfather Basgal's accurate shooting there might never have been a Jenny Domé around today to brag. Of course, both started arguing. Before long everybody was taking sides and rooting for either the Basgals or Domés."
"What about you? Who did you root for?"
Libby arched an eyebrow. "Me?" She lifted her skirts and stepped up into the pickup. "I rooted for the Indians."
* * *
The storm's intensity increased after they had checked the pump and headed for home.
Libby glanced out the pickup's window at the approaching lightning. Each flash lit the dark sky with brilliance. Goose bumps prickled her skin, and she suppressed a shiver. As they turned down the dirt road dividing the Basgal's land from their own, the wind changed directions, beating against their rear windshield.
"Dad, I'd swear the storm is following us. How come it hasn’t started to rain?"
“I don’t know.” In the gleam of the pickup's dashboard lights her father’s gaze darted between the dirt road and the threatening sky. "We best get home."
"Could it be a tornado?"
"Possibly. Only I haven't seen one quite like this."
Libby flipped on the radio, hoping for a weather report. She turned the dial rapidly in both directions. "Nothing. Only static."
Earlier the halos of electrical currents hung in the night air after each lightning bolt dissipated. Now the halos were coming together, joining forces, changing from a translucent color to a pale blue. A spark of fear bloomed into terror.
A blinding white flash, followed by a deafening crack of thunder, rattled the entire pickup. Libby screamed and dove toward her father so she could bury her face between his shoulder and the back of the pickup's seat. Pulsating energy waves hummed through the vehicle, then, quickly, disappeared.
Deafening silence filled the cab. No longer were there sounds of wind or heavy thunder, like a switch had been flipped off, shutting down the force behind the storm. Libby lifted her head and stared at her father. Not only had the storm stopped, so had the pickup's motor.
Her father fumbled with the keys, turning the ignition on and off. Only the extra keys on the ring jangled against the steering column. Dropping his hand away from the ignition switch, he cleared his throat. "It's dead."
"Electricity from the lightning shorted out the alternator." He ran a shaky finger around the high neck collar of his costume. "Thank God, the tires kept us grounded."
The tight fitting bodice and undergarments of Libby's costume no longer seemed fun. She shifted uncomfortably and forced a laugh, hoping to lighten their mood. "We're quite a pair, you know. Here we sit in a brand new, 1966 dead pickup, all dressed up in our 1800's costumes waiting to see if a silly storm is over. Why, if a stranger should happen along and—."
"Oh, my God!"
The color in her father's face drained. He stared past her...out the passenger's window. Twisting around Libby gasped. In the distance, heading toward them, was a circular halo much like the ones she had seen earlier, only this one appeared larger. Its circumference stretched from the ground upward, almost thirty feet.
Libby’s stomach knotted as the halo moved with renewed flashes of lightning. Tiny waves of electrical, blue energy also rolled across the stubble-cut wheat field, heading in the direction of the ring. The revolving circle appeared to feed on the blue energy, along with anything else it could sweep up within its path. Chaff from the harvested wheat, tumbleweeds torn loose from their roots, and debris blown into the field by earlier wind were all sucked within its nucleus.
"We have to leave. Now!"
At her father's hoarse voice, Libby turned to him. Desperation churned through her making her stomach hurt even worse. "Aren’t we safe in here?"
"Not from this." He groped for the door's handle and grabbed her hand, pulling her with him. "This storm’s like nothing I've ever seen. It's absorbing everything in its path. There's a cellar in the old stage station. Let’s go."
For once Libby was grateful the famous stage station stood near the boundary of their land. She scooted half out of the pickup before remembering the first aid kit she had packed for her father and insisted he always carry with him. "Wait." She leaned over the seat and withdrew the bulky carrying case. "We may need it."
He nodded and grabbed the case. As they hurried into the field the wind battered them, pushing them back. Her father drew her close, letting his large body protect her from the buffeting wind. Together, they struggled half-bent across the field.
Libby glanced to her left and couldn't stop a shudder. The ring slowed. She had the strangest sensation it was trying to decide where to go next. Several yards beyond the ring, the pickup, hazy and distorted, appeared almost transparent.
Another brilliant flash exploded this time followed by a loud thunderous roar. Vibrations throbbed against her body, and the wind shifted direction. It headed southwest, the same direction as they ran.
Stinging fragments of wheat chaff burned her eyes. How had the wind changed so quickly? There was a tug on her arm. Her father leaned toward her and shouted in her ear.
"Libby, run faster than you ever ran before!"
A forgotten nightmare from her childhood flashed through her mind. Only this was no nightmare—this was real. She tried to move but her legs failed to obey.
"Please sweetheart," her father yelled, "you have to run."
Libby took a deep shuddering breath and propelled herself forward. Within seconds, miraculously the newly whitewashed stage station appeared out of the darkness, she swallowed a sob as relief spilled through her.
While her father fumbled with the metal latch, Libby blinked back tears. All efforts to make the station appear realistic would be destroyed. Across the way, she could barely make out the small well. They had rebuilt it to be identical to the original found in an old photo belonging to the Basgal's family.
Libby's mind crashed to the present, and she scurried through the open door. The minute she stepped inside, her father slammed the solid pine door, throwing the thick wooden plank across the frame surrounding them in darkness. Only by a flash of lightning could Libby see her father pointing toward the kitchen.
She felt her way across the main room. In the darkness, his heavy breathing sounded ragged and Libby wondered if he was all right. Pain lanced through her thigh as she bumped against a solid object. She reached out and touched the smooth surface of a table. She paused, trying hard to get her bearings. "Here's the kitchen table. Where's the cellar?"
"Inside the pantry." A door hinge squeaked, and her father released a straining groan, "Blast, this trap door is heavy." When the door landed backward with a loud thud, the wooden boards shook beneath her feet. A lantern was thrust into her hands. "Slide your feet until you feel the opening with your toe."
Libby inched her right foot forward and almost immediately felt the floor end. She gathered her skirt hem in one hand and bent down. With the lantern tight against her chest, she fumbled around until she located the first wooden step. "Found it. I'm going down."
"Good, we'll light the lantern a
t the bottom. I don't want to—"
The low, deep, now familiar humming warned them the storm crushed closer. A shrill, keening whine vibrated above the hum. Blue-white light glowed outside the kitchen window and filtered into the station.
With light coming into the building, Libby could see enough to scramble down the narrow steps. Her father followed, pulling the heavy trap door over them.
The instant he secured the door all light disappeared. Despite the quiet, they could still hear the sounds of wailing wind and low humming. Above them, the building rattled and moaned against the storm's force. The dirt walls and flooring of the cellar trembled from the turbulent power.
A fine layer of dust touched Libby's nose and cheeks. She wiped her face with her sleeve. "How long do you think it will last?"
"Not sure. But one thing's for certain, we're not leaving until it's completely quiet."
Her father's footsteps receded. She heard the familiar snap of a catch being released. He was opening the first aid kit.
"Where are the matches?" His voice seemed small in the darkness.
"In a small metal cylinder. You can't miss it. The edges are ribbed."
A scratching followed the sound of metal being unscrewed. An orange and yellow flash exploded into light, with the pungent smell of sulfur.
"Give me the lantern," he said.
When she offered it to him, her father flinched and the match tumbled over and over, flickered once then went out.
"Dad? What—"
The matches were suddenly thrust into her other hand.
"Don't move, Libby. Light the lantern, but don't move."
The agony in his voice frightened her. "Are you all right?"
His only answer was a pain-filled moan. Libby's hands shook while she tried to hold onto the lantern and strike a match against the flinted edge of the cylinder. "What happened? What's wrong?"
"S...snakebite, twice. Rattler, I must have stepped on him," His voice trailed away for a second, then returned. "Got me in the right calf. The other bite is higher when I fell."
"A rattlesnake?" Libby stiffened. Why didn’t it warn us?"
“Caught him by surprise, I guess." Her father moaned again. "Lord, it hurts."
Snake venom reacted quickly. She needed the antivenin from the first aid kit fast. Inhaling a calming breath, Libby struck the cylinder with the match.
To her relief, the match flared and the lantern gleamed as its wick caught. She lifted the lantern high and found her father on his knees. His head bent, as if trying to control the pain.
Libby peered into the shadows. Several broken chairs and other items lay in a heap. On the ground near them was a distinct dusty snake trail. The reptile must have moved on.
The idea of a rattlesnake coiled a few yards away terrified her. She turned from the cluttered corner and rummaged through the first aid kit, finding the syringe immediately.
"Roll up your sleeve. I’m giving you an injection, and then let’s get you comfortable." She withdrew the needle from the small vial of serum. "I have to put a tourniquet around your calf and the other bite." Her gaze met his. "Where is it?"
Her father hesitated then tossed the heavy worsted wool jacket on the ground beside him. He rolled up his sleeve. "Near my groin. We might be lucky. It was the second bite. Less venom."
Close to an artery. Hopefully the injection and tourniquets stop the poison. She forced a smile, pointing to his coat on the ground. "Get ready."
Hours later, Libby leaned over her father's prone body. She placed her fingertips on his wrist. His skin felt hot, and his pulse, though weak, thrummed steadily. She slipped her fingers into the palm of his hand. "Doing good, Dad, I've removed the venom with the suction cup, and your pulse is stabilizing. But in case there's poison still in your tissues, you must remain quiet."
His fingers curled around hers, squeezing limply to acknowledge her words. Feeling his weakness, she kept her tone light. "I think the storm is over. It seems quiet outside."
A faint smile appeared on his lips. "Probably. Storms coming on fast don't last long. Not sure about this one, though. It's a granddaddy."
Libby placed a finger to his lips. "Don't talk. Rest while you can." She chewed on her lower lip, hating to leave him down in the cellar alone while she went for help. She pulled the lantern close to his head. Libby gathered her skirts in one hand and started to stand. "I'm going for help, I—"
"Watch it. You'll hit your head."
Libby ducked instinctively. Directly above her, a rough beam supported the station's floor. A shiver traveled through her when she realized how lucky they had been earlier. In the dark, either or both of them could have collided with the beam.
Libby gave her father another reassuring smile. She bent and patted his shoulder. "Thanks for the warning. I'll be right back."
"Okay, honey."
Bits of cobwebs and dirt clung to her taffeta skirt, and she stepped away from her father to shake it clean.
At her movement, a whirring noise shattered the silence. Her hands clenched the fabric, and she froze, her heart pounded. Bloody hell, the snake was still here.
Keeping absolutely still, Libby holding her skirt above her ankles, she searched the darkened corner. Less than six feet away, underneath the broken chairs and half-hidden in the shadows of the lantern light, the largest prairie rattler she had ever seen, uncoiled and drew into an S-shape. Horny rings on the tail vibrated to a blur. Hypnotically she followed its rhythmic pattern.
Then it moved. Toward her. Everything she remembered about rattlesnakes avoiding people flashed through her mind like a cruel joke. As if locked in an infinite rhythm with the reptile, she watched as it continued its sideways loop toward her.
Suddenly, with lightning speed, the rattlesnake struck. Instinctively Libby lunged backward slamming her head against something solid. Sparks danced before her eyes and her vision spiraled into darkness. But not before she noticed the jagged edge of the rusted pail crash down behind the snake's head.
While the reptile thrashed in a grotesque death-dance at her feet, a ringing filled her ears. Through the tunnel of darkness, she realized what her father had done. In his weakened condition, he had risen to his knees and used the pail to save her life.
But would it be at the cost of his own?
Chapter Three
July, 1866
Matthew Domé stepped from the barn and stretched his six-foot frame. Crisp morning air washed fresh from last night's storm greeted him. He tucked his blue military shirt into his pants and glanced around. Today would be a nice one.
A slender form appeared from the back of the large, two-story, whitewashed house setting less than three yards away from the barn. He watched the older woman cross the area and head for the woodpile. Matthew chuckled and dutifully hurried to take the load of wood she'd gathered. "Good morning, Katherine. You're up early."
Katherine Meyers Strammon laughed, brushing a wisp of graying blonde hair away from her cheek. "I'm always up this early." She yawned behind her hand. "No thanks to the storm which kept me awake for most of the night."
Matthew followed her to the house, remembering other mornings when he'd carried firewood for her. While he growing up, she'd always had a way of making his chores seem appreciated rather than expected. His affection for the woman knew no bounds. They had twenty years of helping each other. She was his friend, confidant, and substitute mother, the only family left to him.
"I checked the barn," he said, breaking the silence. "Everything seems to be all right, except the roof. Anything in the house need fixing before I leave?"
"No." Katherine smiled at him fondly. "I declare, Matthew, you spoil me."
Surprised by her words, he shrugged. "Never enough. If you hadn't taken me in after my parents drowned, I'm not sure what would have become of me."
Katherine's expression saddened. "I'd say it's more the other way. Having you with me kept me sane after the fire took John and Elizabeth."
He noticed
a familiar look on her face and knew she was heading toward their standing argument. She latched hold of his arm and several pieces of wood tumbled to his feet.
"Matt, I know you don't want to talk about it, but for the strangest reason this morning I feel I must. I don't know, maybe it was the storm, but it got me thinking once again how fragile life is."
"Don't, Katherine."
"I prayed on this and God answered. It's time for us to face our pain and move on."
Matthew shook his head refusing to face that kind of pain again. He owed it to Elizabeth. No words could explain how he felt when she was ripped from his arms. He'd failed her. Like all the others. John Meyers, his parents, and Katherine's second husband, Anthony. Everyone he'd come to care about, except Katherine, had died because his inability to save them.
Matthew stepped over the fallen firewood. "Moving on, isn't my problem, Katherine."
"It wasn't your fault."
He lurched to a stop, dropping several more pieces of wood and closed his eyes, feeling the familiar scratchiness behind his lids. "Yes, it was. I promised to keep her safe. I should have held her tighter."
"Accept her death as God's will."
God's will? No God would will a four-year-old child like Elizabeth to die so senselessly. He shook his head. There had to be an answer for her death. All these years, he sensed it. Someday he'd find out why.
To this day it haunted him he'd been the only one found in time. For Elizabeth there had been no body, no Cleo, or his handkerchief. Some suggested she'd been buried too deep to locate.
Katherine's hand on his arm pulled him from his thoughts. "Do you think it was any easier for me that day? I lost both my husband and my daughter. I wanted to die, but I...there was you I had to think of. I had to go on living, accepting what life offered me. When someone comes along who makes you feel alive again, you grab for happiness and hold on. Anthony did that for me."
"And look what it got you," he said curtly. "Another death."
In the early morning sunlight, her eyes glistened with tears. "It's true," she replied, blinking them away. "The Lord took Mr. Strammon from me, but in His goodness, He left Anthony's grandson for me to love and care for just like He gave me you." Touching his upper arm, she nudged Matthew toward the house. "Enough of this. I've made up my mind. It's time you moved on. I'll see you married and happy if it's the last thing I ever do."