In order to not seem aggressive, Mitch dismounted Lady and shook Harvey’s hand. “We were hoping to make it quick. I’d like to talk to Greene.”
Harvey planted his hands on his hips. “Be my guest. I wish I could tell you where he was right now.”
Mitch’s head cocked. “He’s not in his house?”
The main house was dark and silent behind Harvey, but ranchers went to bed early. Greene could have been asleep for an hour or so already—Mitch had just figured it was worth taking a chance and riding over anyway.
“Not that I know. You can go on down and ask the boys if they’ve seen him, but I ain’t set eyes on him myself since earlier this afternoon.”
“Thank you. We’ll likely do that.”
Harvey murmured goodnight, then loped back off around a barn. Beau had joined Mitch on the ground and was standing close to him now. “Is he covering for him?” he whispered.
Mitch sharply turned his face to Beau’s. It was a possibility he hadn’t considered. “Why? Because Greene doesn’t want to talk to us?”
“Maybe.”
Mitchell’s inhale was so quick and forced, it burned his nose. “Let’s go on and talk to the hands. See if any of them know where he’s gotten to. Just don’t mention anything about why we’re here.”
The other three echoed their agreements. Mitch took Lady’s rein, starting to lead her for the ranch hand cabins, but then stopped. “You all go on. I’m going to wait up here just in case he shows up.”
Beau hesitated, just standing there and waiting for more.
“It’s fine,” Mitch told him. “Let’s get a move on before the storm comes. I’ll be right here.”
He waited until they were halfway to the cabins, far enough away hearing-wise, and quickly tied Lady up to the nearby hitching post. If Greene was hiding out somewhere around the ranch, working hard to evade others, then that made Mitch even more suspicious.
Ducking and moving fast, he made his way to Greene’s front door. Not knocking, lest Greene make out through the back door, Mitch carefully turned the knob and let himself into the cabin.
The dark room, full of stifled, hot air, throbbed against his straining eyes. He moved slowly, carefully, so as to make as little noise as possible. A bit of moonlight streamed in through the front window, revealing a table and a stove. As Mitch walked his way around the perimeter of the room, he kept his ear cocked for any sounds—whether from inside or outside of the cabin. Not far away, thunder rumbled, but that was it.
With his eyes finally adjusted to the front room, Mitch could see there was no one in it. He continued to shuffle his way along the way, going for the second room in the house. What he would do if Greene was in there, he didn’t know. Hopefully, the man wouldn’t shoot at him and ask questions later.
The very fact that Mitch was breaking into another person’s house was enough to confirm what he suspected he already knew in the back of his head: Fred Greene was the one attempting to bring his ranch down. There was no reason he should have known about the Northern fence when not even Mitchell did.
Unless he’d been the one responsible for chopping it.
Holding his breath, Mitch inched his way through the doorway and into the back room. He held himself still as he could, watching and listening with the attention of a hawk.
Just like the front room, the back room was empty.
Mitchell let out a long exhale at the same time voices started up somewhere outside. Moving quick, he let himself out the back door and casually made his way back to the main yard.
Recognizing the voices, he strode up to the group.
“Where did you get to?” Nat asked. He was munching on something in his hands and the smell of cooked meat filled the air.
“Just out back for a minute.” He knew Beau was watching him, probably sure he had snuck into Greene’s house. If left up in the yard, that was likely what Beau would have done himself.
“We asked all around,” Davis reported.
“That was quick.”
“They’re all down there having a bonfire.”
That explained where Nat had gotten the chicken.
Beau’s voice dripped with distaste. “And no one has seen Greene… not all evening.”
Mitch’s teeth ground together. “I doubt he’s in town, living it up.”
Nat laughed. Unless there was a church event happening, Shallow Springs was a ghost town at night. Even the hotel closed not long after sunset, the owner kicking all the whiskey drinkers out.
“You think it was him, huh?” Davis asked. “’Cause I sure do. When you think about it all, it just makes sense.”
Right above their heads, the sky roared with thunder, making them all jump. Rain would be coming soon, the bonfire down at the cabins put to an end. The lightning from before was still filling the sky, making the horizon purple.
Mitch looked off in the direction of Winding Path. He couldn’t see it, not even when the lightning flashed, but he couldn’t help but look for it. His home. His parents’ legacy. The place where he and Gemma were supposed to raise their children.
He would protect it with his dying breath, if that’s what it took. He would find Fred Greene and he would get his answers.
27
27. Gemma
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The rain catapulted itself against Gemma’s bedroom window panes, desperate and frenzied like a wild animal trying to get in. Even with the window fully closed and all the heat trapped inside, Gemma shivered. Standing from her bed, she went to the window, cupped her hands around her eyes, and looked out into the darkness. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. And still, Mitchell was not back.
She had not bothered to dress for bed, even though Clara herself had retired a short time ago. Slipping gingerly out of her room, Gemma crossed the hall and popped her head into Mitchell’s own room—the one that was meant to be theirs together.
On such a night, she couldn’t stand to look at it for long. Pulling her head back out, she sighed and began pacing the hall. Worrisome thoughts invaded her mind. He was still not back. Why was he not back? She should have told him about William Picoult while they were in the barn. Every day she waited, the worse the act of holding onto such a large secret became.
A floorboard creaked under Gemma’s shoe, making her pause. She listened for signs of Clara awakening, but heard none. Not wanting to disturb her with the pacing, Gemma gently let herself out onto the front porch.
The rain had softened somewhat, or was perhaps lighter on this side of the house. It pitter-pattered against the grass and edges of the porch, but where Gemma took her refuge, it was dry. The wind still hassled the land, throwing its cool self against Gemma’s face and dress. Wrapping her arms around herself, she lowered herself into the rocking chair.
Bang!
Gemma jumped right back up, her heart racing and her eyes darting across the dark yard. The banging sounded again, but this time, she could breathe. It was not the sound of a gun shot, but of something else entirely: the sound of wood on wood.
Tremendously loud, it came from somewhere near the barns. A door left open, perhaps? One which was now being tossed against a barn wall?
Gemma waited a couple minutes to see if any of the ranch hands would go and shut it, but the noise only continued. Likely, it was later than she had originally thought and all the hands—save for the ones who had gone with Mitchell—were still asleep.
The noise was driving her crazy, though. Add it to the worries already tormenting her and she was liable to go insane. Snatching Clara’s shawl from the hook near the door, Gemma wrapped it over her head and braced herself against the rain. She hurried across the grass, shoulders hunched and head dropped. Still, cold rain found its way under her collar to slide along her back and make her tremble.
She ran along the row of barns, pausing to listen at each for the sound. Finally, she discovered the source of it. Just as she suspected, a door had been open and was being pummeled by the har
sh wind. Running to the horse barn, Gemma took hold of it and pushed it closed. Satisfied with her work, she sprinted in the most unladylike way back toward the house.
Halfway to the house, light flashed in the corner of her eye. She stopped, momentarily surprised enough to let the shawl slide off half of her head. The light had come from the largest barn, the one that held hay in the loft and some cattle in the bottom. Through a crack in the door, the yellow glow was visible.
Gemma’s heart flipped over. Was Mitchell back?
Rushing to the barn, she tore the door open and flung herself inside. With the edge of the shawl, she wiped water from her eyes. The man halfway down the barn stayed where he was, silent and watching her.
“I thought you...” The words died in her throat. It wasn’t Mitchell in the barn. It was Mr. Greene.
The cold rain had been nothing compared to the freezing sensation that took over her body now. Breathe, Gemma, she reminded herself. Mr. Greene did not yet know that Mitchell suspected him to have committed criminal activity. There was no way he could know.
At least that was what Gemma hoped.
Taking in a deep breath, she forced herself to smile. “Mr. Greene. What a pleasant surprise. How do you do?”
“Miss Campbell,” came his tight response. He stared back at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching. The lantern at his feet was open, its flame dancing wildly around. A sharp smell filled the air, but she couldn’t place it.
She kept her smile on her face, all those years of etiquette classes and parties finally paying off in a real, practical way. Perhaps Gemma was not the most well-educated woman in the world, or the smartest, but she was confident she would have made a good actress.
“I believe Mr. Reed has retired for the night,” she said. “But I will happily go and see if that is not the case.”
Mr. Greene gruffly cleared his throat. “No, don’t do that. I wanted to discuss something with him, but I should be going.”
Still, though, he did not move. Gemma’s eyes drifted back down to the ground, and she saw what she had missed before. A tin can, full of shiny black liquid, was behind his feet.
Gas. That was the familiar smell. How many times had she been out in the streets at dusk when the lamplighters came around, using their long poles to light the wicks of the gas streetlights? Passing too near them, the acrid taste had coated her tongue, making her cover her face with her palm and turn away.
Gemma quickly threw her gaze back upward, but it was too late. Mr. Greene knew what she had seen. His face was still passive, save for the slight twitch in one brow. The air became heavy, each new breath Gemma took in more labored than the last.
Mr. Greene took one slow step toward her, his eyes never moving from her face. Gemma wanted to shuffle backward, to flee, but she was frozen in place. Right behind her, the wind howled and the rain pummeled the earth—sounds of freedom. Had she closed the door? Could she make it if she sprinted for it?
Play the fool. That was what she needed to continue to do, to act like she still knew nothing about what was going on.
Though her pulse raced horrendously, she tugged the smile back across her face. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Greene? It is still awful back there, and surely, Mr. Reed would prefer it if you waited the storm out here before traveling back home.”
His eyes darted to the side of her and, in an act that seemed somehow both slowed down and sped up, he lunged for the door. Gemma rushed to the side, throwing herself against the wall and away from him. A second later, she realized it had been the wrong move. He had shut the door, barring her from any escape.
“I don’t expect you to keep your mouth shut about this,” he growled, the voice sounding nothing like the kindly neighbor who had given her a ride home and offered to share his penny savers with her. How had that act only taken place earlier that afternoon? And which was the real Mr. Greene—the one she had talked to in the wagon, or the one who stared at her now with glazed-over eyes and a tight jaw?
Her hands pressed against rough wood behind her, Gemma took a step along the wall, away from Mr. Greene. A bale of hay stopped her journey.
“I am sorry, Mr. Greene, but I must confess I do not know what you are speaking of.” Her words shook. Perhaps she was not the actress she prided herself on being after all. No way could he believe her. She needed another plan.
He rushed her again, but just as he took his first step, Gemma noticed the pitchfork leaning against the bale of hay. Whisking it up, she pointed the sharp end at him. He came to an abrupt halt only a few feet away from the prongs. His chest heaved, his eyes fire as he glared back at her. Gemma remembered a rabid dog she had seen once in New York. Mr. Greene seemed more like that animal now than he did human.
“You don’t know how to use that.”
Gemma lifted her chin and stared into his eyes. Her knees were shaking so much she feared they might buckle completely, but she kept her face fierce. “You know nothing about me, Mr. Greene. I suggest you take a step back.”
He swallowed hard, his eyes blinking fast. A moment of visible questioning flashed across his face. Gemma’s hope lifted.
And then, he lunged, knocking the pitchfork right out of her hands and throwing himself at her. Gemma had just enough time to let out a shriek before he was on top of her. They tumbled to the ground, the barn a blur going past her eyes. The back of her head hit the floor with a hard smack, but there was no time to feel the pain. Mr. Greene’s hands were around her throat, his full weight pressing down on her body, keeping her locked into place.
Gemma thrashed her legs, attempting to knee him, but her lower body was pinned good. His grip tightened around her neck and she could feel the air being pushed out of her.
No, was all she could think. Not like this.
She had come so far, escaped a nightmare and found so much more. She would not let her life end this way. Twisting her shoulders, she got her arms free. His eyes were wide, the whites large as he stared down at her, watching himself drain the life from her. Her right arm loose, an instinct Gemma did not know she had kicked in. She jammed her thumb right into his eye, its tenderness pressing back against her nail.
Mr. Greene howled and reared back slightly, his grip on her throat loosening just a bit. It was enough, though. Gemma jabbed her elbow into his throat, the sharp point of her arm connecting with the soft spot in his neck. He hacked and sputtered, losing his balance on top of her. Gemma used the last bit of her strength to roll out from under him and jump to standing.
The pitchfork was there, only a few feet away. Gemma lunged—and felt two hands grab hold of the back of her skirt. They yanked her back and she hit the ground, the collision sending up a plume of dust. Her vision blurred, the handle of the pitchfork going soft. She extended her arm as far as she could for it, but the weight on her back became heavier, till she could not move at all.
This was it. She was trapped, with no more strength left.
And she had not told Mitchell the truth. Why had she kept her secrets from him? With death only a moment away, she saw the uselessness of such an act. All that time spent worrying—and not just over her past. Their shared worrying over the ranch, over their future together.
They should have just been happy. They should have realized that life was fragile, that it could end at any moment.
Why had no one ever told them?
A knee hit Gemma’s back, thrusting her face into the earth. Fingers twisted in her hair and she cried out in pain.
Bang!
The noise ripped through Gemma’s ears. There was a yell and the weight vanished from her back. More noises: grunts and the knock of a fist against bone. Gemma rolled over, sputtering and sucking in air.
Mitchell was on top of Mr. Greene, one hand twisted in his collar and the other raised in a fist. The two stared at each other, red-faced, labored breathing and grunts coming from them both.
“Mitchell,” Gemma tried to say, but it came out barely audible.
Instea
d, someone else called Mitchell’s name. Hands were on her shoulders, pulling her to standing, and she looked over to see Beau helping her up. Nat ran in as well, helping Mitchell to haul Mr. Greene from the ground.
Gemma blinked and swayed slightly. Her head ached, her neck felt bruised, and her whole body trembled. She had been in shock before, but this was nothing like when the moose charged her or when she was almost hit by a wagon that one time on Madison Avenue. With both of those cases, she had felt she was only playing with death. Life had still been there, calling her name and waiting for her to return. But tonight… tonight, she had been so close to dying, so sure that there was no hope at all.
And here she was, alive and looking right at Mitchell.
He came to her, his head lowered so he could look into her face. Warm fingertips brushed her jaw and she closed her eyes, losing herself in the touch.
Her Western Heart_Seeing Ranch series Page 19