“I was gonna make us some eggs for breakfast,” Marston replied setting the skillet on the cook stove, which Langley had already gotten a fire built in. “I don’t know about you, but my stomach is eating my backbone.”
“Every time I swallow, my stomach yells at me to quit teasing it,” Langley agreed. But then he shivered. “Are you sure you wanna make eggs?”
Marston frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Langley chewed the inside of his lip and tapped the table. “Well, every time you make eggs, they’re so watery we have to tip up our plates and drink them like soup!”
“They’re not that damn bad,” Marston grumbled.
Langley snorted. “Are too.”
Marston crossed his arms over his chest and stared down his nose at the boy. “You know when I was your age I barely ever got breakfast. I barely got any food at all. I would have sold my left damn leg for a plate full of watery eggs.”
Langley stared up at Marston a moment, appeared bored with the whole conversation and then went back to playing his jacks. Marston grinned. Score one for him—he’d actually managed to render Langley speechless.
“I’ll save your stomach and let your mama do the cooking,” Marston relented, heading for the door and grabbing his gun belt off the back of the chair. “I’m gonna go feed the critters while you get busy with your math.”
“Okay,” Langley began dropping his jacks back into a tiny burlap sack. “Uncle Jeremiah showed me a real fun way to do it!”
Marston cinched his gun belt tight around his hips and shook his head. “Figuring out how many cattle a rancher will have left after you rustle a few isn’t the best way to practice your math.”
Langley grinned. “Uncle Jeremiah says it is.”
Marston let out a long sigh as he opened the door. “Your uncle Jeremiah has suffered heat stroke at least a dozen times. He isn’t the best to be taking advice from.”
***
Langley had long since gone to bed that night as Rose sat curled up in the armchair with her sewing and Marston sat on the sofa, smoking his pipe and watching her closely. He needed to talk to her, he just hated that it was going to ruin the peace of this moment.
“That must have been a hell of a dream this morning,” he finally spoke.
Rose didn’t look up from her sewing. “Yes. But it wasn’t anything I’m not used to.” She paused to frown at him. “I’m sorry about your nose.”
“My nose is fine,” he promised. “It finally doesn’t hurt when I breathe.”
Rose’s lips twitched. “I did get you pretty good.”
Marston laughed and leaned across the distance separating them to press a tender kiss to her cheek. He swelled with pride and love at the sight of the happy smile that lit her face.
“Wanna talk to me about the dream?” he asked, settling back on the sofa.
She shook her head, her eyes dropping back to her sewing. “You know I don’t.”
Marston growled under his breath. Yeah, he knew Rose didn’t want to, but she was going to anyway. Marston had been patient all these months just waiting for her to open up—he was done waiting.
“Well then tell me who Gilliam is.”
Rose’s face paled, her sewing clattered to the floor and her lips trembled as she looked at him with blue eyes that were wild. “Who?”
“You heard me,” Marston replied, hating to see her so frightened but knowing that this was the only way he could see revenge served. “You said his name this morning during your dream. Who is Gilliam?”
Rose turned her head and stared into the fire. How did you tell the man that you loved that Gilliam was the name of the man who was supposed to be your father? The man who starved you, beat you and forced you to lay with countless men for money? How did you tell him that it was the name of the man who forced you to lay with him, got you with child and then sold you to the highest bidder?
Rose wasn’t even aware that Marston had moved until he was lifting her from the arm hair and settling her down on his lap. His strong body enveloped her and his warm lips kissed her hair. “Rose, you can tell me.”
Rose listened to his heart beat beneath his ear and picked at the button on his shirt. Her heart pounded, her lips shook and her stomach churned, but Rose knew she had to tell him. She couldn’t keep it all locked inside any longer.
“Gilliam Montgomery was the man who adopted me from the orphanage when I was ten,” she whispered. “I couldn’t believe it when he picked me over all the younger children. I was certain that he was my savior… Then one night, about two months after he took me, the first man showed up.”
Rose shivered as memories of that night flashed in her mind. The tastes, the scent, the touches—all of them just as vivid as if they had happened last night instead of years ago.
Marston felt a wildfire of rage spark to life in his blood. He knew Gilliam Montgomery—or at least knew of him. He had met him a few times and hadn’t thought he was too bad a man—of course, Marston had realized he was keeping children as whores either. It was well known that you could sample women if you went to Gilliam, but no one ever mentioned little girls.
“How long did he have you, Rose?” Marston whispered, his jaw so tight it felt as if it would snap.
“Almost six years,” came her quiet reply.
Marston held her tighter, hoping that somehow his touch would take her pain away. He wanted to do nothing more than shield and protect her from anything bad in the world. “I’m sorry, Rose.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she assured him, pressing her lips to the throbbing pulse in his throat. “The worst part about what he did to me is that I know who Langley’s father is.”
“Me,” Marston snapped more roughly than he’d intended.
Rose raised her head to look at him and he saw the haunted, bone deep sorrowful look in her blue eyes. “Gilliam. He beat me one night and then he…he forced me…” Rose’s voice broke and she squeezed her eyes shut tight against the pain. “Langston came not long after and took me away. Three weeks later I learned I was with child.”
Marston didn’t know what to say and he was afraid to speak. If he spoke she would hear the rage boiling in his blood. If he spoke, she would hear the barely contained fury and Marston knew that at this moment, that wasn’t something she needed to hear.
So he did the only thing he could do and simply held her close. He held her silently within his arms as the fire dwindled to nothing but smoldering embers.
Marston felt Rose twitch in his arms and he turned his gaze to her face to find that she was sleeping peacefully against him. Marston stood, cradling her soft body in his arms and he carried her to the bed.
Rose mumbled softly in her sleep as Marston laid her upon the feather tick mattress. He kissed her brow tenderly and pulled the blankets up to her chin.
Silently, Marston packed his saddlebags and pulled paper and a pencil from the cabinet. He wrote two letters and folded them carefully. Marston left one on the table and slipped silently into Langley’s bedroom with the second. He patted the sleeping boy’s red hair as emotion clogged his throat.
Quickly Marston laid the letter on top of Langley’s favorite storybook and fled the room. He gathered up his weapons, strapped them on, shouldered his saddlebag, snatched up his duster and left the cabin.
Gilliam Montgomery would pay for what he’d done to Rose—pay for what he’d stolen from her. Marston set off into the night with only one thought resonating in his mind.
Vengeance.
***
Rose knew instantly upon awakening that she was alone in the bed. Reaching over her hand, Rose realized that Marston’s pillow was cold—he hadn’t slept there last night.
Fear settled deep in her gut. What if Marston had left her? What if the full knowledge of her past—the full knowledge of Langley’s paternity had been too much for him?
Deep inside Rose knew that her fears were foolish, but that did nothing to make them less real. She listened for an
y sign of movement in the cabin but heard nothing. The morning was silent and still.
Rose’s bare feet carried her to the empty kitchen. The air held a chill and Rose decided to start a fire in the cook stove to warm the place up however she was distracted from that task when she saw the piece of folded paper on the table with her name on it.
She recognized Marston’s messy handwriting and her heart dropped into her stomach.
He had left.
She picked the paper up and unfolded the trembling piece of paper.
Rose,
You know what you mean to me. There is nothing that I would not do to keep you happy and safe. You also know that I am not a patient man, I am not an understanding man and I am not a forgiving man.
I have suffered through all these nightmares with you these last few months. I have held you while you’ve cried and felt more and more helpless with each tear. Helplessness and I are not a good match. There is nothing I can do to fix the wrongs that were done to you, but I damn well can make sure that the man responsible pays.
I am going to be honest with you because I don’t want secrets between us. I know the man you spoke of last night. I know where he was as of a year ago. It is my intent to find him and see him bleed for what he’s done to you.
I love you, Rose. I shouldn’t be gone longer than two weeks but if I am please don’t worry. He might have moved and it might take longer to track him down than I hope it will. Take care of yourself while I’m gone and don’t work too hard. If there is anything you need, I left all the money under the loose floorboard. Don’t worry about me. I’m good at surviving.
Yours forever
Marston
Rose sat down hard in the chair as realization dawned on her. She had finally told Marston the name of the man who had wronged her and caused those nightmares she had so often and he had run off to avenge her.
Rose hated the thought of him killing again. It made her stomach ache and burn to know that he would be taking a life, but Rose also knew that Marston would not hesitate to kill anyone who harmed those he loved—and he did love her. And she loved him as well—fiercely.
Rose did the only thing she could do. She sent a prayer up to God to bring her man home safe and forgive him the wrong he was preparing to do.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was dark when Marston slipped from Buck’s back seven days later. He was somewhere in the middle of nowhere in northeastern Texas and the night sky was clear and dotted with stars.
A lantern was glowing in the window of the shack in the distance and two horses were hitched outside. Marston knew Gilliam was here tonight and he had one of his collection of whores no doubt laying with whoever owned that second horse.
All Marston could think of—all he’d thought of for days—was Rose and the hell that this man had put her through. His blood had long since turned to ice in his veins and there was no room left in his mind for doubts. Was this cold-blooded murder? Yes. Was it justified? Damn straight.
Marston left his rifle in the saddle and slipped through the shadows. He wouldn’t be needing a long range weapon. Marston wanted to be up close and personal when he took Gilliam’s life. He wanted to cause the man as much pain as he could before he let his heart stop beating.
Approaching the cabin, Marston crouched beside the open window and listened. Two men were arguing inside and he could hear a girl sobbing.
Girl—not woman.
Damnation! Gilliam had another girl. Marston glanced through the window and recognized Gilliam instantly and the man he was arguing with was Vincent Sharp. Vincent was bare from the waist up and he wore a bloody handprint on his chest.
Marston’s eyes went past them to the tiny bed in the corner and the young girl who was curled up there naked and bleeding. She couldn’t be any more than ten or twelve and she was pale skin pulled tightly over bones as she trembled violently.
Suddenly Marston felt a bone-deep shame fill him. A shame that the life he had led for so long had had him traveling roads with men like these. These men were monsters and Marston sent up a prayer that God would forgive him for every wrong thing he had ever done and every innocent person he had ever harmed. He didn’t ask forgiveness for what he was about to do because as far as he was concerned there was no wrong in it.
Marston pulled his revolver, took a deep steadying breath and then kicked the door with all his might. With a splintering of wood, the door flew open and Marston fired a shot directly into Vincent’s chest. Without sparing the man another glance, Marston leaped toward Gilliam and brought his revolver down hard on his head. Gilliam crumpled to the floor in an unconscious heap.
Marston smiled as he hogtied the man and tossed him in the corner. The smile faded when he turned his attention to the girl on the bed. He realized just how much had changed at that moment. The Marston he’d been before Rose and Langley would have barely spared the girl a second glance. The Marston he’d been before would have shrugged her way, chalked it up to bad luck in life and walked away.
But he wasn’t that man any longer.
Marston walked toward her slowly, approaching her with his hands up just as he would a wild animal. The low lamplight revealed that her physical state was poor. Her blond hair was knotted, dirty and limp around her gaunt face. Each and every bone in her bare body jutted out roughly against her pale skin—skin that was covered in wounds and scars just like Rose.
The girl whimpered and wrapped her arms around herself tightly as she shied away from him. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you.” She didn’t look the least bit convinced by his promises.
“Where are your clothes, girl?” Marston asked, glancing around.
The girl’s green eyes were wary, but Marston could see hope beginning to light them. She held out one thin arm and pointed toward a chest in the corner.
Marston walked to the chest and pulled out a yellow gingham dress and underclothes. He tossed them on the bed beside her. “Can you dress yourself?” he asked, hoping the answer was yes.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice frail.
Marston turned his back to her and gave her as much privacy as the tiny cabin would allow. When she was dressed, Marston pulled his bandana from his pocket and held it out to her. She frowned and he pointed to her cheek which was cut and bleeding.
The girl pressed her fingertips to her wound and winced before looking at the blood covering them. She took the offered bandana and held it over her face.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Kaitlyn.”
“Do you have a home? A family?”
Kaitlyn shook her head. “Gilliam adopted me.”
The girl was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm so Marston grabbed a scratchy wool blanket and laid it over her shoulders. “Yeah, well, I don’t think he’s gonna be in any shape to be your pa after tonight,” Marston assured her and the ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.
Marston led Kaitlyn out of the cabin and took her to Buck. “Do you know how to use this?” he asked, placing his heavy revolver in her hand.
Her eyes widened as she shook her head. “You just pull the hammer back, aim the revolver and squeeze the trigger slowly,” he advised. Kaitlyn nodded. “Stay right here and wait on me.”
Marston left her standing there as he slipped off through the night once more and returned to the cabin. He strode across the tiny shack to Gilliam and found the man awake and staring at him with pale blue eyes.
“What are you doing, Marston?” Gilliam snapped. “Untie me now and bring my daughter back here!”
Marston simply shook his head and smiled as he pulled his knife.
Gilliam’s eyes widened and he tried to scoot away only to smack his head against the wooden floorboards. “Marston, what are you doing? You’ve lost your damned mind!” Marston took a step forward and Gilliam blanched. “I’ve never done a damn thing to you.”
Marston paused and nodded. “You’re right. You haven’t.” He put his
knife away and left the shack. He took the whip from the saddlebag of Gilliam’s horse. He held that braided piece of leather in his hands and imagined the pain it had inflicted on the woman he loved—the pain it had been dealt to that innocent little girl in the woods.
Once again rage flowed through his veins like blood itself. His fist clenched around the handle and an animalistic growl rumbled from his chest.
“What are you going to do with that?” Gilliam gulped when Marston reentered the shack.
Marston snorted. “I’m going to hit you with it obviously.”
“Why would you want to do that?!” Gilliam’s voice rose with hysteria.
“Why would you want to hit Rose with it?” Marston countered, his temper rising.
“W..who?” Gilliam whispered, recognition dawning in his frightened eyes.
Marston grinned as he tossed the whip over his shoulder. “I know you’re dumb as a brick, Gilliam, but even you must remember your own daughter. Rose? Tell me, was it that red hair that made you pick her out of all those other girls? Or was it her deep blue eyes that you figured men would like?”
Gilliam swallowed hard and his eyes darted about the shack as if hoping someone would come out of the shadows and save him. “Why do you care?” he whimpered.
Marston clicked his tongue. “Because Rose is mine now and I don’t much like thoughts of what you did to her.”
“I never did nothing to that girl but make her earn her keep!” Gilliam countered.
Marston growled. “Wrong answer.” He snapped his wrist and the whip cracked through the air, landing sharply across Gilliam’s chest. The man’s shirt tore and blood quickly seeped through.
Gilliam’s cry of pain echoed through the shack.
“Hurts doesn’t it?” Marston mused as he once again laid the whip gently over his own shoulder.
Gilliam was sniveling at Marston’s feet and pleading for his life. Marston sneered down at the man and spit at him feeling an overwhelming disgust ash over him.
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