Grant met us in the kitchen, tugging suspenders in place, pistol in hand. Both children were crying; I heard Birdie shushing them. The back door burst wide open, emitting Cole and Patricia. Grant tossed a shotgun from its wall hanger straight to Cole, who caught it and chambered a round. All three men gathered in the front yard, arranging themselves in a semi-circle and aiming their firearms at the approaching rider.
Cole lowered the shotgun. “It’s Axton!”
With those words Patricia flew from the house, me on her heels.
Axton slid from Ranger’s back almost before the horse was at a halt. He held his ribs and walked with a hitching gait; my heart lurched. Miles holstered his pistol and ran to catch Axton before he fell. Patricia raced to Axton’s other side but didn’t dare touch him, not knowing the extent of his wounds.
“Get him inside,” Grant instructed. “Birdie! We got a wounded man!”
Birdie, wrapped in a quilted robe, her hair in its customary nighttime braid, hurried to light two lanterns, sweeping the cloth from the table and bundling it in a corner. The boys were still crying from the direction of her bedroom but she paid them no mind.
Taking immediate stock of the situation, Birdie ordered, “I need a basin.”
Patricia flew for the hand pump in the kitchen.
“Axton,” I breathed, hovering at Miles’s elbow as he helped him atop the table. My innards seized; there was blood all along Axton’s right side.
Birdie rolled up her sleeves and brought one of the lanterns closer.
Flat on his back, allowing Birdie to unbutton his shirt, Axton whispered, “I got here as fast as I could.”
Miles rested a hand on Ax’s upper arm and kept his voice calm. “What’s happening?”
Axton grimaced as Birdie removed his shirt and eased down the waist of his trousers, all of us gaping at him like he was some sort of science experiment. Axton’s lean torso was wet with sweat and rusty-red blood had crusted along his ribs and over a deep wound near his right hip. The last I’d seen him he’d been riding east, waving farewell, bound for Howardsville. He focused on me and I clutched his outstretched hand.
“What is it, Ax? What’s happened?”
“They killed Uncle Branch.” He sounded like a stranger, his voice hoarse and rough.
“Who?” Grant demanded.
I understood plainly it was no time for sympathy but my heart shredded at Axton’s words. I clung to his hand. Patricia returned with the basin, her face as white as bare bone, terrified eyes tracking all over Axton, absorbing every detail.
“Men rode into town and killed Deputy Furlough just before sundown,” Axton said in the stranger’s voice. “Killed him and tore up the jailhouse. Set fire to it next.”
Miles was up and pacing.
I shifted to the side so Birdie could better examine the extent of the damage; she ordered, “Hold the lantern near,” and inspected him with knowledgeable eyes. “I see two wounds. This one on your hip needs cleaning and stitching. There’s no time to waste.”
Cole demanded, “What men?”
Axton’s eyes roved from face to face; he reminded me of a spooked horse. I cupped his cheek, cold against my palm. “Sweetheart, listen to me, it’s all right. You’re all right. What men are you talking about?”
Standing near his hip, Birdie bunched a damp cloth and began dabbing away dried blood. With determination, I kept focused on his eyes.
“Axton,” I implored.
He drew a shallow breath. “We were in town because Ruby threw a shoe. We heard the shots from Lyle’s,” and I knew he meant the blacksmith’s barn, adjacent to the livery stable. “And there was Deputy Furlough in the street, bent over his gut…”
“Then what?” I whispered.
“Two men were on horses and they were yelling. One was Aemon Turnbull.” My heart plummeted at this name. “They wanted to know where the marshal was. They shot up the jailhouse windows.”
Miles stopped pacing; his distressed gaze found and held mine.
Axton clenched his jaws as Birdie continued her ministrations; he sought Patricia’s attention, already fixed upon him, and whispered her name.
“I’m here,” she breathed, moving as close as she dared, smoothing hair from his sweating forehead.
Axton reached and gently clasped her wrist. “The Yancys’ train cars came back late this afternoon. I’ve kept watch since they left, weeks back, but now they’ve returned.”
Patricia faltered. Cole was there at once, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist.
Oh Jesus, she said with no sound.
“They’re coming for me,” she choked, her voice so thin and reedy it hardly sounded like her own. Her hands flew to her face, fingertips making divots in her skin. “They do not believe me dead. Of course they would make certain for themselves.”
“You are not theirs,” Cole said heatedly.
Patricia stood immobile, mired in a nightmare.
Cole spoke again, more adamantly. “Patricia!”
Miles asked Axton, “Did anyone follow you?”
Ax tore his eyes from Patricia. “No, I swear, no.”
“We can’t take chances. We have to assume they did,” Grant said.
Axton tried to sit. “Marshal, Uncle Branch knew the other man riding with Turnbull. It was the one called Vole.”
Chapter Twenty
“JESUS CHRIST,” GRANT MUTTERED. “JESUS fucking Christ.”
Only Miles retained a shred of calm. “What happened next, Axton? How was Branch killed?” I’d never heard him sound so serious. “You said they were asking after me?”
“Uncle Branch has been carrying his pistol again. When he saw what was happening, he didn’t hesitate. He shot at them. He hit one of the bastards but they fired back.” Axton’s mouth twisted. “Uncle Branch was hit near a half-dozen times before they rode away. He was just gone, marshal. Gone. It was so quick. I couldn’t do a goddamn thing. I dragged him inside the livery and rode out here as fast as I could push Ranger – I didn’t know I’d been hit ’til I was miles from town.”
Miles inhaled hard through his nose, his eyes steady with purpose as his mind clicked along, taking into account every possibility. “You did the right thing, Axton, but we must presume someone followed you. I need for everyone to listen to me, right now.”
Even Birdie, working over Axton with all the determination of a field nurse, paused to look at Miles. She appeared ghostly in the lantern glow. Grant understood without further instruction, immediately pulling rifles from the rack near the door and boxes of bullets from the drawer of the hutch.
“I’ll sweep the yard. I want all of you to stay indoors and away from any windows.” Miles watched me as he spoke. “Birdie, you know your way around a firearm. Keep the Henry near you at all times.”
I skirted the table to confront him. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll let Grant’s men know what’s happening. We’ll stay here and lie low, for now,” Miles said, and I heard the way he meant to offer reassurance. His black hair hung loose, his collar unbuttoned. I thought of how I’d been safe in his arms only fifteen minutes ago.
I am in love with you, he’d said.
There were so many things I should have said in return. The heart-smashing agony of it is we very seldom know that the last time we speak to a person is actually the last time.
Celia, I thought, with sudden horror.
Branch and Axton weren’t the only ones who knew we’d fled Howardsville. Celia knew where we’d gone…
What if they’d somehow gotten to her?
Miles saw the play of terrorized thoughts over my face. His eyebrows drew inward, asking, What is it?
But I shook my head, unwilling to add fuel to the fire of his worry.
“Cole, help me,” Birdie instructed, and together they half-carried Axton to the pantry beyond the kitchen, a narrow space with no windows, where Birdie hurried to drag aside the butter churn and spread a quilt on the floor. She ordered b
riskly, “Fetch the stitching thread, my largest needle, linens, the basin and the whiskey. Hurry now!” and Patricia and I leaped to do her bidding.
Miles, pistol at ready, slipped outside; to my relief, he returned within minutes, letting us know, “Yard’s clear.” He’d gathered up the ranch hands not on duty with the cattle and men clustered around the table, loading rifles and pistols, talking all at once. The cook left his young son with us, the boy sleepy-eyed and bewildered. Birdie worked to heap blankets and pillows in the far corner of her bedroom, away from the activity; I heard her tell the boys to stay put before she rejoined us.
Just outside the pantry, in the darkness of the hall, Patricia caught Birdie’s arm and whispered, “Might I use the necessary? The yard is clear, Miles said, and I shall not be long…”
Birdie, distracted, nodded at this request. “Hurry back.”
I should have known right then but I was so unfocused, torn up over Branch, distraught over Celia’s wellbeing, and terrified to assist in what amounted to surgery here on the dirty pantry floor. I called after Patricia, “Do you want me to come with you?”
She did not look back as she said, “No, I shall return directly,” and disappeared around the corner, toward the door at the back of the house, the one which led to the hand pump and the outhouse. I heard the soft thump of the outer door as Patricia slipped from view.
Birdie’s face hardened with determination as she swept aside her skirts and knelt beside Axton. The men spoke loudly in the other room, crowding the table as they planned for imminent attack, their voices rising over one another’s. Birdie shut them out and held my gaze. “I’ll need your help, Ruthie.”
I nodded with as much confidence as I could muster. One of the lanterns had been positioned on the floor to light our work.
Birdie gently traced the side of Axton’s face. “You’ll be all right. It will hurt but I’ll work as quickly as I am able. I have stitched many a wound.”
Axton jerked his head in a quick nod.
“I’ll be right here,” I promised, threading our fingers. “Right here, Ax.”
It took perhaps twenty minutes. I lost track of time. Blood smeared Birdie’s fingers, wrists, and forearms. Axton grunted, muffling cries as she cleansed the wounds with generous pours of pure whiskey. I held his hand, letting him grip as tightly as he needed, bracing my knees against his thighs to keep him in position so Birdie could work. Based on the evidence, Axton had taken two bullets to his right front side; one had gouged a shallow trench of flesh just below his pectoral muscle while the second, more damaging shot had passed through the side of his waist, tearing a ragged hole above his hip. Small black flecks, which Birdie identified as gunpowder residue, speckled the skin of his torso.
Birdie washed both wounds, concentrating on the hip shot; despite the terrible, ragged appearance of its exit point on Axton’s lower back, Birdie insisted it needed only cleaning and stitching. She said, “Thank God it did not penetrate the bone. I am ever so glad I needn’t first dig out bullet fragments,” and I knew she spoke from experience.
Before plying the heavy stitching needle she murmured, “Hold still as you are able,” and without further ado, fell to work. Cold sweat leaked over Axton’s temples; he clenched my hand.
“You’re doing great,” I repeated again and again, until the words became nonsensical.
The noise in the kitchen faded away, Miles having issued brusque orders to the men to take up positions in the nearby hillside, where they knew the lay of the land and could keep watch for anyone riding near; he joined us in the pantry toward the end of the ordeal, resting a hand on my shoulder.
Miles murmured to Birdie, “Good work.”
Though Birdie stitched with admirable skill, the sewing together of Axton’s flesh stretched over an agony of long minutes. Without intending it I suddenly gagged, burying my face against my shoulder, embarrassed for appearing weak when Axton was the one whose bloody, wounded skin was being pierced.
“It’s done. You did well, Axton,” Birdie said, with notes of satisfaction, tying off the final thread.
“Thank you,” he whispered on an exhale, eyes closed.
“Rest now,” I whispered, and bent to kiss his forehead, taking care to avoid jostling him.
Birdie wiped her bloody hands on a cloth. “You were good help, Ruthann.”
Miles lifted me to my feet, leaning close to inquire, “Might I steal a moment’s time?”
In the dimness of the kitchen I collapsed against his chest and let him hold me. I clung, absorbing his strength.
“It’s all right,” he murmured, burying his face in my hair, stroking it with both hands, letting my curls twine around his fingers.
I pressed my cheek to his heartbeat. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know what to think,” he admitted. “I don’t believe for a second Vole is stupid enough to ride up on a well-defended position but I don’t aim to take any chances. I’m damned upset about Branch. And Furlough. Can’t say I was overly fond of my deputy but he didn’t deserve to be shot like a dog on the street. Jesus Christ.”
“Axton said they wanted you.” Fear and anger twisted together in my throat. The lack of light cast him in tones of gray but I knew his face well enough to fill in the tint of his skin, the dark intensity of his eyes.
“Vole wants me most, the piece of horseshit. I should have pursued and shot him dead four years ago, I knew it then. He must have met Turnbull outside of Howardsville. Nothing like one angry idiot to rouse another to violence.”
“I’m so scared. What if Patricia’s husband is in town…”
“Don’t be scared, sweetheart. I’m right here. I will never let anything happen to you.”
Agitation burned my skin; I was sick with fear despite his sincere reassurance, my heart beating too fast. Miles continued, “What we spoke of remains true. You will stay with my family until I am able to return. I will leave with the dawn and see what is to be done about the damage to Howardsville. I’ll wire for a transfer of route, as I said. And I will come straight back to you.”
“But what about…” I trailed to silence, knowing with all my heart that I didn’t want him riding away from me. The air in the room seemed supercharged, the way it felt before a thunderstorm broke and came at you across the surface of a wide blue lake…
“What about what?” he whispered, hands widespread on my back. I felt impossibly fragile, vulnerable in spite of his capable strength.
“Are you able to wire your family, in Iowa?” He nodded and I would forever after be glad I spoke the next words. My voice shook only a little. “Because I want you to tell them…I want you to tell them you’ll be bringing a wife when you return there next.”
Miles stood motionless as my words registered meaning, his face with its typical stern expression.
My heart pulsed. “If the offer is still on the table, that is.”
He whispered, “Of course it is,” and grasped my jaws, claiming my mouth for a kiss that spoke of his relief, his abounding joy. I had accepted his proposal of marriage; my breath was caught somewhere between promise and surrender. I slipped my arms around his neck and our kiss deepened. He took my lower lip between his teeth, then my chin, kissing my neck, tilting my head as he willed it in order to taste my skin.
“Miles…”
He exhaled in a rush, resting his forehead to mine, grasping my waist. “You must believe me when I say, despite the terrible circumstances, I have never been happier.” He punctuated these words with another kiss, parting my lips with his tongue and hauling my hips flush against his; he was harder than any fencepost and my knees almost buckled. He whispered, “I must go. I despise leaving you here but I’ll be close by, just outside. I cannot slack in my duties because I wish to make passionate love to my fiancé atop the table.” There was subtle humor in his tone.
“I’ll be here,” I promised, hating to relent to the necessity of letting him go. I caught his face in both hands and tugged him back
; a sharp, possessive thrill shot across my belly at the sight of his grin before our lips met, more urgently than before. I released my hold on his jaws only to commandeer his wrists and bring his hands to my breasts, arousal swelling like a living thing, beating through my blood.
He groaned, low and soft, cradling my breasts, tracing my distended nipples with his thumbs, his tongue circling the inside of my mouth. I lifted into the heat of his touch, running one hand down the front of his trousers, desirous and unashamed; we’d lost so much time already. I was determined we would lose no more.
“Woman,” he gasped. “Oh Jesus…we have to stop…”
I knew he was right; I rested my forehead against his neck. Miles cupped my shoulder blades. His pulse thundered against my sweating skin. He drew back, eyes steady on mine, and whispered, “I love you, Ruthann Rawley.”
Without another word he disappeared into the night.
And I was ashamed, horrified to the core of my soul – it was not until then, alone in the dark kitchen, that I thought, Patricia.
The recognition of her overdue reappearance in the house overtook all other concerns, inspiring a secondary beat of fear. My gaze darted around the room, empty but for me. I heard Birdie in the bedroom, soothing her boys; I flew to the pantry to find Axton lying on his uninjured side, a small pillow tucked under his head. At the sight of my terrified face, Ax lifted to one elbow.
“What is it, Ruthie?”
“Patricia,” I moaned, and the floorboards seemed to tilt as I stumbled to the back door, flinging it open and peering at the yard, as ominous as a graveyard. Of course she was nowhere to be seen. I ran to the bedroom, where Birdie sat on the floor nursing Isaac, the other boys crowding her skirts. She looked up as I gasped, “Patricia is missing!”
Birdie’s lips dropped open. “Oh, dear God…”
Axton had staggered to his feet, gripping the doorframe to remain upright. His eyes held mine and I saw that he understood. Agony distorted his expression. He said, “She can’t be more than an hour ahead. I can overtake her.”
“Maybe she’s just upstairs,” I babbled, ridiculous though it was, and raced to the room we shared, calling for her, riddled by guilt; of course she was not there. I closed my eyes, imagining I could see her fleeing eastward even now, doing her best to intercept what was coming before it reached the rest of us. My thoughts took desperate wing. Roughly an hour head start; she left the house claiming she would be right back while the rest of us were crowded inside, the men around the table and Birdie and me around Axton. Had she dared to lead a horse from the corral?
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