by Erin Bowman
Winchester in hand, I run for the house.
A trail of blood leads the way onto the stoop and through the door. I crank the rifle’s lever, ejecting a shell. Step onto the stoop. Take aim.
The man is hobbling for Kate’s doorway, oblivious of me.
I will not miss this time. Even if the bullet goes straight through him, the bed is offset. Kate and the baby will be fine. The shot will find a home in the wall.
I take a deep breath.
Steady my aim.
And just before I can squeeze the trigger—a gunshot.
My head snaps up from the barrel. The Rose Rider is still standing there.
No.
But then a blot of blood appears on his back. It blossoms and blooms, spreading across the fabric of his jacket, and he topples forward, not moving once he hits the floorboards.
I race inside, burst into the bedroom.
Kate’s arm is still extended, one of her twin Colts smoking while William cries in the crook of her other arm.
Chapter Forty-Five
* * *
Reece
For what seems like ages, Jesse is airborne, floating like a feather. Then time slams back to speed and he’s tucking, rolling as he crashes to the ground, tumbling and flailing through the brush and thorns and hard earth, shrinking as the train races on.
Rose leaps down to the flatcar. Instinctively I throw my forearm up to deflect the blow, but the punch never comes. Instead, he grabs the front of my shirt.
I barely have the sense to holster my pistol before the world turns upside down.
There’s an instant of weightlessness, the roar of the train speeding off, and then impact. The air goes outta my lungs. I try to do what Jesse did and roll up, but the worst of the crash has already happened, and it’s easier to be limp. Stones cut at my shirt and slice into my skin. Dirt stings my eyes. Prickers and shrub claw and scrape, the book in my pocket jabbing at my flesh all the while.
Then, as quickly as it started, it stops.
I sag into the cold winter earth.
Up, Luther Rose tells me. Get up, you worthless excuse of a man!
I lift my head.
He’s struggling to his feet, drawing his gun. I follow his aim. Jesse. He’s running for Rebel, still tethered to a mesquite in the distance where we left her at the start of the trail. His bad shoulder hangs, the arm limp and dark with his blood.
Get up, Reece.
It’s so startling to hear my name—not Murphy, or son, or kid—that it takes me a second to realize it ain’t Rose’s voice in my head, but my own.
Get up, get up, get up.
I push onto my hands and knees, sit back on my heels.
Rose starts shooting. The bullets cut through cacti and shrub, each one biting closer to Jesse’s heels.
I draw my pistol. Take aim. Fire.
Luther Rose drops his weapon and falls to one knee, my bullet having found a home in his thigh.
“Get up!” I shout at him. “Get up, you worthless excuse of a man!”
Jesse’s on the horse now, riding into the woods. The shrub and trees swallow him. He’s safe.
Rose shoves to his feet, his weight planted firmly through the uninjured leg. “Murphy,” he says, “I know why you think I wronged you. And I’m sorry.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“I failed you. Lemme make it right.”
He’s giving me that look I’ve seen so many times, the one that always comes when he calls me son. He don’t even appear shocked that I’ve betrayed him. He just seems sad.
“You can’t right this,” I tell him. “It’s too far gone to save.”
A corner of his mouth quirks. “Don’t preach to me ’bout evils, son. Not when you done struck down yer own brothers.”
“They ain’t my family, and I ain’t never been yer son.”
He nods, like he believes he can understand my position. “Family’s the most powerful witchcraft, ain’t it? I been doing this all for my brother, and he ain’t even here no more. But I’ll let it go for you, Murphy. I’ll let that Jesse fella live if you come with me right now. We can leave, just the two of us. Go start again somewhere else, lead the quiet life we both always wanted.”
“You know nothing ’bout what I want!” I scream. I’m aiming my revolver at him now, the weapon quivering in my grasp. “I never wanted any of this. You forced it on me. You made me into the Rose Kid.”
“And so what?” he asks, throwing his palms at the heavens. “The Rose Kid dies today?”
“Maybe.”
I never intended to face off with him like this, but if this is how it’s gotta be, then I’m ready. Only one person’s gonna walk away from this section of rail.
He understands what I mean, and just like that, the world seems to narrow.
Chapter Forty-Six
* * *
Charlotte
I take Silver and ride.
We can deal with the bodies later. Same with the soiled sheets and birthing mess. Kate swears she is strong enough to battle the fire if it manages to spread to the house. For now, we’ll let the stable burn. It can be rebuilt. Most things can. But Reece and Jesse, not in the slightest, and something with the train setup has gone horribly wrong.
Both of the Riders’ horses follow me, and I’m in too much of a hurry to bother chasing them off. It’s roughly an hour to the rails, and I need to make time. My hastily bandaged palm stings with each slap of the reins, and the torn fabric of my dress flaps against my shoulder. I should have changed or taken a jacket, gathered more ammunition. I should have done a lot of things, but I left too quickly, driven by fear, with nothing but the Winchester and a few more rounds.
The mountains become a blur, a whirring tunnel of dirt and rock and green pines. And then, in the middle of the trail, just before it opens onto the plain, is Jesse, slumped forward on his horse.
“Jesse!” I pull up alongside him. His shoulder is slick with blood, and when he raises his head to greet my gaze, he can barely keep his eyes from rolling. He is likely swimming in pain, perhaps on the verge of losing consciousness. “What happened? Where’s Reece?”
“Kate . . .” he says. “The baby.”
“They’re fine.”
“Two men. At the house. Reece said—”
“They’re taken care of. Kate’s fine. William, too.”
“Will.” He says the name as if it is the greatest treasure.
“Where’s Reece?”
“With Rose.”
With him? That can’t be right. He wouldn’t betray us. Not after everything.
“Stay here,” I tell Jesse. “Or keep riding if you can manage. I’ll catch up in a moment.”
I nudge Silver again, and we surge forward.
Chapter Forty-Seven
* * *
Reece
Rose pushes his jacket back, slow, tucking it behind his holsters. Only the left piece is stowed there, its grip gleaming in the sunlight. The other still lies where he dropped it after my bullet found his leg.
I lost my hat back in the boxcar and am left squinting hard in the sun. Rose’s face is a blank canvas, mouth and nose bright, eyes and brow dark from the shadow cast by his hat. The day is deathly still—no wind, breeze, nothing. Blades of grass stand like tombstones. Our jackets hang by our knees like iron shields.
Even with my weapon already drawn and his in a holster, I know he can best me.
So when he moves, I’m struck through with shock, ’cus it’s slow and cautious, the kind of harmless draw I seen many men do in the gang’s presence.
Palm showing, he lowers his left hand till the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger can lift the revolver from his belt. The barrel stays pointed at the ground, the grip resting on the back of his hand as he holds it before him. With it balancing like that, he surrenders.
I ain’t never seen Luther Rose surrender to no one. But here he stands, offering his weapon to me.
Ain’t that amazing
—how a person can change.
The slightest breeze skims over the plain. My bangs snag in my lashes. Rose’s jacket ripples at his knees. Just as suddenly as it started, the breeze dies, and the peacefulness of the moment goes with it. The air ’round Rose is suddenly laced with tension.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and I know I been wrong ’bout everything.
He moves fast as lightning, and the pistol comes up, grip sliding into his palm.
I aim and he aims, and two shots rattle the stillness of the valley.
Luther Rose drops to the dirt
and I
feel
invincible.
Chapter Forty-Eight
* * *
Charlotte
They stand apart in the distance, connected only by the dark shape of the tracks, which seems to string them together like beads on a cord. I draw Silver’s rein, frozen with surprise.
Reece’s weapon is aimed at Rose, who appears to be surrendering, but I somehow know it will not be that simple. The devil wears wings at all the right times and then casts them aside when we believe him to be an angel.
Don’t fall for it, Reece. Whatever he’s telling you, don’t believe it.
Reece’s gun dips just slightly—he thinks it’s over, that the devil has come clean. That’s when Rose’s hand twitches and Reece sees the truth.
Their weapons come up.
There are two gunshots.
And they both fall.
Chapter Forty-Nine
* * *
Reece
I feel the cold, burning pain only after I’ve slumped to my knees.
There’s a hole near the pocket of my jacket, a gaping wound just above my hip. There ain’t enough blood, not to match the pain.
I slump to my side and roll back to look at the sky. It is the biggest blanket, the most peaceful quilt. The earth beneath me is cold.
You did it, Reece. You did it.
The Rose Kid is dead.
Reece Murphy is free.
Chapter Fifty
* * *
Charlotte
Silver carries me into the valley, over thorny burrs, around angry shrub. It must take a good five minutes to reach them. I draw rein beside Rose and check him first. I will never make the mistake of not checking again.
He is dead. The bullet has punched a hole into his chest, right over his heart, and he doesn’t look as if he felt even an ounce of pain. His lips are barely parted.
One of the horses that followed Silver nudges the body with her muzzle. Rose’s steed, perhaps.
“Reece?” I run to him. He’s staring up at the sky, clearly in pain. Rose commits a lifetime of atrocities and blinks out like a candle, but Reece is forced to endure this after all he’s already weathered. It doesn’t seem fair. It isn’t.
“It’s you,” he says, surprised. His eyes find the ripped state of my sleeve, and then realization dawns on his face. “Did Jesse—? I sent him to . . .”
“No. I passed him on the trail. But Kate’s fine. And I’ll make sure Jesse is, too.”
“Are you hurt?”
He means it—this ridiculous question when I am whole and he’s been shot. There’s blood above his hip, a hole in the pocket of his jacket. Beneath, his shirt is wet—stained red—and when I pull the fabric back, I can see the bullet lodged there, his skin swelling around the lead. Blood seeps with each breath he takes.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, though it is only partially true. I lay the jacket back in place and find his hand, guide it to the wound and help him apply pressure. “Where are the others?”
“Dead,” he grunts out. “Jesse and me took care of ’em.”
“Can you get up? We need to get you to the house.”
“Nah,” he says. “Leave me here.”
“What? No. Get up, Reece Murphy. You get up right now.”
“I don’t reckon I can.”
“That’s not fair. You don’t get to come this far and quit. Not when they’re all gone. Not when it’s your turn to finally live. You’re not supposed to die today.”
“Maybe I am.” His eyes roll a little. “Hey, Charlotte? I’m sorry ’bout everything.”
I can’t help it. I start crying. Because he’s right to apologize for some things, yet I don’t want him to feel this way. Not now. Not at the end.
“You think,” he continues, “that we mighta been friends in a different life? You and me?”
“We’re already friends in this one,” I tell him.
He manages a smile.
“Now come on, Reece. Get up. I’ll bring the horse.”
“I can’t even sit.” He looks up at the sky, his breathing labored. Reaching blindly, he finds my hand, threads his fingers through mine. “Charlotte, I want you to tell the story, all right? ’Bout the Rose Kid. And how he died here today. But how he became Reece Murphy again first. Can you do that?”
I blink back tears. “Of course.”
He squeezes my hand and I squeeze back.
“Please go help Jesse,” he says when I don’t move. “No one else gets to die ’cus of me. No one.”
I see the argument he’s making, I do. Jesse needs help and has only a shoulder wound. Reece has been shot in the gut, and I know how deadly stomach wounds can be. With the rough state of the trail, it’s about an hour back to the hideout, less if I ride at a good clip, but he’ll only slow me down. It’s lose one of them or potentially lose them both. Still, I try to lug him to a sitting position. He’s too heavy. I put his arm behind my shoulder and try to stand as I did that day in the snow. I can’t move him even an inch.
“I’ll return with help,” I say. I’m not certain Kate will be strong enough for the ride, not after twelve hours of hard labor, but that is a problem for when I reach the house. “Just hold on till I get back.”
“All right, Charlotte Vaughn,” he grits out. “If you say so.”
I am unfair to Silver, urging her constantly faster up the trail. I catch up to Jesse about halfway to the house; he’s slumped over in the saddle and barely conscious. I grab hold of Rebel’s lead and guide the mare on.
By the time we enter the clearing, Jesse is fading fast, and Kate comes shuffling to help. We manage to lug him into the house, where he goes straight onto the kitchen table. I rock William while Kate sees to the injury. Probably she has experience with gunshot wounds. She’s a bit slow on her feet, but she sterilizes some tools from her sewing kit and uses them to dig out the bullet. It’s not the bullet that often kills folk, she tells me, but infection. She pulls out a small square of fabric—a bit of Jesse’s shirt torn free and dragged into the wound by the force of the shot. Then she goes about bandaging his shoulder. It’s likely he’ll lose use of the arm or, at best, experience limited mobility, but Kate’s confident he’ll live. “And what need’s he got to lasso a bull no more? The rail’s killing the ranching industry. This just puts him outta his misery quicker.” She says it all jokingly, but there’s a pained look in her eyes. I figure it doesn’t matter much if your livelihood is stripped from you by injury or chance or fate; it still hurts all the same.
We move Jesse to the second bedroom, and as his eyes wink shut in sleep, I turn to Kate.
“We have to go back for Reece.”
“He’s alive?”
I quickly tell her about the shootout, how Reece shot Rose but also took a bullet to the stomach in the process. “I couldn’t move him on my own. I need another set of hands.”
Kate glances at Jesse. Their future is bright now. Because Reece took care of Rose, they no longer have to live in fear. She understands the complexity of the situation—how Reece brought this tragedy to her door but also kept it at bay—because in the end, she simply nods.
I do not know how she finds the strength to sit in the saddle. But she leaves William sleeping snugly beside Jesse and mounts Silver without a protest. I take Jesse’s horse, and we ride.
Kate quickly falls behind. She can’t fly at the
same speed as I can, not after all she’s been through, but so long as she makes it to the rails, all will be well.
When the tracks come into view, both bodies are gone. So are the Rose Riders’ horses that followed me originally.
At first I think I have seen it wrong. It is hard to tell what is shrub or rock at a distance, but then I’m down in the valley, pacing the place where it happened beneath the late afternoon sun, and they are nowhere to be found.
I stare at their blood in the dirt. Rose’s is thick and dark in the place he’d fallen. Reece’s is not as prominent where he lay, but there are dribs and drabs showing that his body moved over near Rose’s, then disappeared. The entire area is awash with boot prints and the markings of hooves. And then there are the marks of a wagon, arriving from and disappearing in the same direction—toward Prescott.
Oh God.
I know what happened. The train arrived in town. Passengers spoke of a fight that took place onboard. Maybe someone peering from a window even saw two figures resembling Luther Rose and the Rose Kid leaping from the train. A posse was assembled, and they rode this way to chase the outlaws.
There is no sign of a struggle in the dirt.
Reece was too weak to put up a fight. The Law came while I was gone, and they took him. They took him, and now he’ll hang.
Chapter Fifty-One
* * *
Charlotte
I shout a frantic farewell to Kate and am immediately back in the saddle, riding for Prescott as fast as Rebel will take me.