Heartsong

by Lynn Winchester

  She shuddered. “No. I have to know.” Her voice shook, but she pulled her shoulders back and gazed back at the sheriff with a stubborn tilt of her chin.

  Temogen nodded and Mac saw Timothy stiffen, his face as much in a grim set as Rhetta’s. If this was any indication of the man’s depth of fortitude, he was in for one heck of a talking.

  The sheriff touched the edge of the fabric, pulling it back quickly, revealing a bundle of thick, silky hair.

  Rhetta gasped. “That’s Bernie’s hair!”

  Brandt coughed, and the group turned to look at him. He looked ill, as if his reality of troubles had finally sunk in. “Cassius said to tell ya that iffin’ ya don’t bring the ten thousand dollars come Thursday, he’ll be sendin’ a part that bleeds.”

  Chapter 13

  Rhetta paced across the floor of her room, following the bands of sunlight along the hardwood as if they could lead her to her sister. It was hours after sunup, but she hadn’t slept a wink. That man had Bernie’s hair! Rage boiled over, spilling from her eyes as a salty flood.

  How dare that man put a hand on Bernie’s head, let alone cut her hair to send as a warning! And what would happen when he finally got fed up of waiting and just killed Bernie?

  A sob stuck in her throat and she collapsed onto the side of her bed.

  “Oh, Bernie. Please, Lord, keep her safe, keep her strong. Let us find her before it’s too late.” She palmed her cheeks and let the tears fall—hours of pent up tears.

  The sweetness and comfort of her time with Mac in the clearing had been torn to shreds when she saw that man standing at her doorstep. Then her heart finally fell into the pits of her belly when she saw those clumps of Bernie’s hair in Sheriff Temogen’s hand. That man, Brandt, had carried Bernie’s beautiful hair in his pocket as if it meant nothing more to him than a piece of lint.

  Again, the rage rose, then crashed against the anguish, fear, and longing for Mac, worry for Bernie, confusion, frustration, exhaustion—it was all too much!

  She shot to her feet.

  “I can’t sleep. I might as well see what I can do to prepare for when they find Bernie and bring her home.” Yes, that’s what she’d do. She’d have faith that Mac would fulfill his promise to her and bring Bernie home safe and sound. And when Bernie got home, she’d need a bath, food, and a comfortable bed to sleep on. The bed was already accounted for, but the cook needed to know all of Bernie’s favorite foods. Bernie would want her roast beef and sweet potatoes, and she’d want to soak in scented salts.

  Determined to make it so, Rhetta quickly washed, dressed in a plain brown dress, slipped on her stockings and boots, and left her room to head downstairs. Her unbound hair reminded her that she hadn’t tied it back, but she couldn’t care about that when she had something so important to do.

  She stopped on the second to last stair, her mind scoffing at her. Was she doing something important? Really? Was running a bath and pestering the cook for roasted meats really what her sister needed right then?

  Frustrated, she groaned, leaning her forehead against her hand on the banister. She should be out there, with the men, hunting for the heartless bastard who stole her sister and then cut her hair—and then threatened to cut other pieces from her.

  She should have feared for her sister in that moment, but all she could muster was anger for Cassius, and a mental push for Mac, Gregson, Timmy, and Temogen to get to Bernie soon.

  “Henrietta, what are you doing downstairs?” Rhetta stiffened at the sound of Phyllis’ voice. Oh. Wonderful. Phyllis had been happy to ignore Rhetta over the last two days, completely removing herself from the goings-on as if it were too much of a bother to worry about her own cousin. Rhetta regretted not appreciating Phyllis’ absence more. And where Phyllis was…

  “You must be exhausted, Cousin. I mean, you have been out all hours, doing Lord knows what with that…foreman.”

  Shocked at Brigette’s knowledge and disgusted at her tone, Rhetta stiffened and slowly raised her head from where it rested, looking over to see her prissy cousins standing in the foyer beside the sitting room door, looking like gift-wrapped dolls made of spite and arrogance.

  “Good morning, Phyllis, Brigette. I’m glad that the horrible kidnapping of my only sister didn’t ruin your night. I’d hate to think that my sister, in any way, disturbed you.” And there was the snide, angry Rhetta. The Rhetta she only brought out when people treated her like an old shoe—much as they’d been treating her for years.

  Phyllis raised her chin and narrowed her eyes at Rhetta. Rhetta gave it right back.

  “I’d heard Bernadette was kidnapped, and I truly am sorry about that,” she said. Rhetta watched, in surprise, as Phyllis’ eyes softened in concern. “I hope she is found safe and that she’s home with you soon.”

  Startled by her cousin’s rare show of warm human emotion, Rhetta blinked back the prickling of tears. If her cousin was worried, then something must truly be wrong.

  Brigette, not one to be left out, came to Rhetta and placed a lace-gloved hand on Rhetta’s arm, looking up at her where she still stood on the second to last stair. “I’m sorry about the crack about Mr. Solomon. When I’m scared, I tend to get mean…”

  Only when she was scared? Then by all accounts, Brigette was terrified from sunup to sundown. Every day. All day. Suddenly stung by the viciousness of her thoughts, Rhetta sucked in a breath and placed her own hand over Brigette’s, gently squeezing it in thanks.

  “It’s all right, Brigette. And I’m sorry about what I said the other day…about you two being bugs…I didn’t mean it. It’s just that…well…ever since my twelfth birthday, it seems as though you two and Bernie have turned from me. I don’t know what I did to make you three hate me.” A sob bubbled up from her chest and she let the tears fall again…something she’d never allowed herself to do in front of her cousins.

  Footfalls along the corridor to the kitchen went ignored as Rhetta cried, Brigette murmured in an awkward attempt to comfort Rhetta, and Phyllis stood, stalk still, staring at Rhetta and Brigette with a curious look on her face. She almost looked as though there were something she wanted to say, but didn’t know how to.

  The footfalls stopped. “Oh, Henrietta,” Aunt Melda cooed, coming up to where Rhetta stood on the stairs. With an arm around Rhetta’s shoulders, the woman led her down the last two stairs, across the hall, and into the sitting room.

  All at once, the memories of the afternoon before, when Mac had carried her in here and held her in his arms as she cried flooded her mind. She’d been warm, safe, filled with the desire to stay right there, in his embrace, to forget the world and all its hazards and just be with Mac. It was, even now, a desire that made her yearn for the man…a man out looking for her sister. Putting himself in danger to keep a promise he made to her. He was the Wheeler Hills’ foreman. He should have been exercising horses or coordinating the planting of the back forty. But, instead, he’d strapped a Colt to his waist, stared up at her bedroom window with a hopeful look on his face, and then turned and raced off into the waxing light of the rising sun.

  Oh, Mac…be safe. Find Bernie safe. Come home to me…

  Mac led his percheron, Mathos—short for Mathosapa, the word for “black bear”i in Lakota—up the embankment of the small, nearly dry brook. It was the third such brook they’d crossed that morning on their way up the mountain to the ridge where Brandt said he and Cassius had been camping before they found the girls. With any luck, the man would still be there and Bernie would be whole—save for the length of her hair.

  “Ease up, now,” Mac called back to Timothy who was a few yards behind him. “We’re getting close.” The tree line just ahead was one of the landmarks Brandt mentioned in his directions.

  “Just past the trees, there’s a path that leads up to a ridge. We camped there under the cover of a rock.” The man might have smelled of whiskey and poor decisions, but he seemed clear about where they might find his friend. And they could do no better with the amount
of time they had left to get Bernadette before the time was up. With no way of getting ten thousand dollars, their only choice was to rescue the girl before the deadline.

  Mac brought Mathos to a halt beside a young oak; branches strong enough to hold Mathos’ reins and provide a little shade to the faithful horse. Timothy stopped Ink beside him and dismounted, tying the horse to another low branch.

  “From here, we walk…softly, quietly,” Mac instructed. Tracking Cassius was old hat, but he’d never had a partner before. It was a welcome feeling to have someone to share the load with, someone who could have his back when he needed it. And, it didn’t hurt that Timothy was Rhetta’s brother, a man to whom he had to prove himself worthy. They hadn’t spoken about Mac and his actions with Brandt and Rhetta, but he knew the conversation was a short time in coming. He knew that once Bernadette was safe at home, he might not have a position at the ranch any longer—he’d save one sister only to be barred from seeing the other. Then again…he knew Timothy, he was an honorable man. He’d listen when Mac spoke of his growing feelings for his thanáǧina, and his desire to court her properly.

  Court her? his heart questioned. In truth, he wanted more than to just court Rhetta. He just didn’t know how much he could give of himself without getting something in return. He knew from her agreement to let him court her that she felt something toward him, but was it possible that she felt as much as he did?

  You’re a fool. And he knew he was, but his mother…his father…they dared to love despite the fear of the unknown. They dared to band together to face the world as one heart and one soul. His mother, after his father died, wept for weeks. She’d tuck her black hair behind her ears, gaze down at him with brown eyes filled with sorrow, and tell him she loved him, would always love him. When young Mac asked her why she wept so much for his father, she told him, “Mahkah, wičháčhaŋte, my heart, I weep because my heartsong is gone. He is gone from this life forever, but…I am glad to have met him, to have loved him, to have had a heartsong so beautiful, it will ring through you, my son.”

  He didn’t really know what she’d meant then, but now…he knew what it meant to feel his heart beating in time with another’s. With Rhetta’s. And he couldn’t imagine it continuing to beat without her.

  While stuck in his thoughts, he’d led Timothy down a new path cut into the thicket at the base of the ridge. As quietly as he could, he moved forward, totally aware that at the end of his journey was more danger than he ever faced—not because of the man with the gun, but because of the hostage. Prickles rose over the back of his neck and he knew they were getting close. Now alert, he raised a hand to halt Timothy who was, as Mac was, slowly making his way up the path in a low, near-crouching motion. It was hard to move soundlessly like that, but Mac was used to it; his long, muscular legs were limber, agile, and strong enough to pounce on unsuspecting prey.

  Listening for sounds of a camp, Mac quieted his mind, forcing his thoughts of Rhetta to the back where they wouldn’t distract him. Timothy moved up beside him and knelt.

  “Do you hear anything?” he asked in a harsh whisper. Mac held up a hand to silence Timothy, focusing his hearing. Years of tracking and training had allowed him to hear some of the faintest sounds…whispers caught by the wind, the flutter of butterfly wings, the beating of a human heart from across a clearing…

  Honing his gift, he focused on the area to the west, higher up on the ridge. He couldn’t see anything through the long grasses and crags, but if he listened…

  There!

  “I hear them,” he whispered, excited. “Cassius is an arrogant son of a mule—he’s not even trying to be quiet.” The man was yelling…it sounded like a drunken rant about…Brandt. If the situation weren’t so dire, Mac would have laughed. Brandt had said Cassius wouldn’t be happy about his disappearing. When he didn’t show up at the overlook that morning, Cassius would have figured out that the man had gotten himself caught. It was one of the reasons he and Tim had decided there wasn’t enough time to wait for Temogen and Gregson to form a posse. Instead, Temogen and Gregson decided to take Brandt back to Sweetwater Springs and wire for a judge. They’d get back to Morgan’s Crossing just in time to take Cassius in hand. Once Mac had the rotten cuss in irons, bleeding from a few well-placed strikes to the face.

  Timothy grunted, readjusting his body to better see through the long grass. Mac followed suit, trying to peer through the obstruction to find any flicker of a sight. His rifle was a comfortable weight in his hand, and all he needed to finish this mess right now was a clear shot.

  But it wasn’t going to happen, not from down here. If he wanted to snipe Cassius, he needed to be over the camp. No, that wasn’t possible. They were already close enough to smell the campfire. They’d have to go back around the whole ridge, and then risk the steep climb up the other side to get to the overhang Brandt mentioned. No. It had to be a frontal assault, one that would risk his life, Timothy’s life, and Bernadette’s life. Mac had no doubt that a coward like Cassius, who used a young woman as collateral for a ridiculously impossible debt, would use her as a shield to save his own hide.

  But, he knew, also without a doubt, that Timothy was ready to give his life to save his sister. And Mac was just as willing to lay his on the line.

  “We’re going to have to meet him face to face, Mac,” Timothy said, reading the terrain and coming to the same conclusion. “No way around it that won’t cost time, and no way to sneak up on him…” Timothy must have seen the look on Mac’s face because he raised a single eyebrow.

  “You have an idea, don’t you?” Timothy asked, his tone wary.

  Mac nodded solemnly. “I do, but you aren’t going to like it.”

  Timothy looked him in the eye, his blue eyes peering down into his soul, and Mac let him, meeting the man gaze for gaze. “If we make it out of this, I want your permission to court Rhetta,” Mac said, never breaking eye contact. Let the man see how serious and determined he was to have Rhetta as his own. Timothy didn’t blink, only continued to gaze into Mac’s face.

  Then, with a single nod, Mac knew he’d won a battle that would bring him the greatest prize. A chance to woo his wičháčhaŋte, his heart; to convince Rhetta to take a man like him into her life.

  And all before she left to go back to Dry Bayou.

  Slapping Mac on the back, Timothy placed his other hand on the gun at his side. “So, what’s the plan?”

  Chapter 14

  The time on the mantel clock said seven, but it felt like one hundred hours had passed. The sun had nearly set and the coming night brought a chill to the air blowing through the sitting room windows. She was finally alone with her thoughts—her cousins and Aunt Melda having given up on keeping her from worrying over what she couldn’t control. They’d left to do whatever it was one did when their sister wasn’t in danger. When their brother wasn’t in danger. When the man who stole nearly every thought wasn’t in danger. Oh, Mac…her heart cried out to hear his voice, to feel his arms around her, because if he was speaking to her, holding her, he wasn’t out there, in the coming darkness, with a man more dangerous than Rhetta had ever known.

  And Bernie, her twin, her only sister…how was she handling it all? From the way she handled having the gun to her head at the overlook, Rhetta wasn’t sure Bernie had the wits about her to remain calm, to keep her mouth from getting the rest of her in deeper trouble.

  A fresh fear rolled over her, snatching her breath. What was taking Mac and Timmy so long to get Bernie? Had something happened? Was one of them wounded…was one of them dead?

  Shuddering, Rhetta moaned at the course of her negative thoughts. I prayed to God to protect them…it’s in His hands now. It always has been…

  JoJo had come and gone, bringing with her fresh-baked raisin cookies and a set of strong, comforting arms. But she left to care for her brood. She had her own worries—her husband, Timmy, was out there, too. While Rhetta cared for him as a sister would a brother, JoJo was worried about the other half
of her heart and soul. And it was something Rhetta was beginning to understand herself.

  Heartsong. It was a word Mac had used to explain how his mother felt for his father. Rhetta had never heard it before, but it was beautiful—not just the word, but what it meant. Two hearts, beating together in a rhythm only those hearts would ever know. Cringing, she remembered how bold and idiotic she’d been to ask Mac if she was his heartsong. How could she ever think Mac would choose her as the heart to which his would be tied to forever? Despite his insistence in calling her a hummingbird, she’d only ever been the brown mouse, in the corner, or in the field drawing, thinking, whiling away her time. Alone. Always alone.

  Despite how brooding he appeared when she’d first seen him, how intense, he was a gentle soul. A man of broad shoulders, strong arms, big hands, and an even bigger heart. She could recall how incredibly handsome he was last night in the moonlight, how the dark of his black hair framed a face chiseled from stone and given flesh. The sharpness of his cheekbones, the square of his chin, the slit slant in his eyes…it all made for a man more beautiful than should be possible. And his eyes…the blue of indigo, the depths of the ocean, the heat of the sun…all rolled into a gaze that would rob her of thought in an instant and make every inch of her body thrum with energy.

  Mac was meant for someone better than her…better than a mouse trying to be the hummingbird he wanted.

  Sorrow flooded her. She missed her sister—the sister she had when they were eleven. The sister she could talk to about anything. She needed that sister now more than ever. But Bernie was gone—the old Bernie, that is. The new Bernie was still in the clutches of Cassius, and Mac and Timmy were her only hope of coming home alive.

  Burying her face in her hands, she groaned. She’d cried her last tear hours ago, which had done nothing to lessen the weight of her thoughts or fears. Not that crying helped Bernie or Mac. Thankfully, Aunt Melda had agreed that, once Bernie was home, she’d need all the comforts available to bring her some peace. So, Cook was making a second, private meal of roast and sweet potatoes, a bath was drawn and waiting, being refilled with hot water every thirty minutes, and Bernie’s bed was turned down and waiting for her.