Passage (Soul of the Witch Book 1)

by C. Marie Bowen

  Jim crossed the bunkhouse with his long strides, took Bill by the arm, and steered him out the door.

  Doc Johnson ignored the ranch hand and set his bag on the foot of the bed. “Well, since I'm here, I'm going to have a look.” He removed Henny's bandages and looked at Merril's injury. He pressed several places around the wound on his chest, grunted, and then asked Merril to sit forward and looked at his back. “This looks good. I didn't need to make this trip.”

  “I'm sorry for that. When Jim brought me in, Bill and Henny thought the worst.”

  “Hmm.” Doc removed new bandages from his bag. “I'll dress this and advise you to take it easy. Not much more you need from me.” He placed a compress over the chest wound. “You'll have quite a scar.” Then he wrapped a strip of white cloth around Merril's chest to hold the bandage. He did the same for Merril's back. When he finished, he stepped to the chair and took a seat.

  “Why aren't you up at the house?” Doc's voice was soft as he repacked his bag.

  “Because Kevin's there.” Merril murmured, surprised at the venom he tasted in that one name.

  Doc heard the anger, and his gaze rose to Merril's face. “Is he the one that shot you, son?”

  “No.” Merril heaved a short sigh. “He didn't shoot me. He did shoot one of the Cheyenne men that helped us.”

  Doc shook his head. “I've seen grief change a man.” He was silent for a moment, then looked up and met Merril's gaze. “I've known your brother for nigh on ten years, but I can't say I know the man I spoke with at the house just now.”

  “So, he is home.” Merril swung his feet to the floor and reached for his boots. “I'll walk you to your wagon, Doc. Then I need to speak to my brother.” He reached for a small bag beneath the bunk, pulled out a shirt and shrugged it on.

  Doc stood and watched Merril with a concerned look on his face. “Are you sure you feel up to that? He's more'n half-drunk already. Maybe you should wait till mornin'.”

  Merril's grin ticked up, and he gave Doc a half-smile. “It won't matter, either way.” He buttoned his shirt and pulled his hat from the hook by the bed. He picked up his gun belt and Colt from the floor by the side of the bed.

  “Do you need your gun to talk with to your brother?” Doc Johnson asked.

  Merril shrugged and tied the string around his thigh. “No. At least, I hope not.” He straightened and walked with the doctor to the door. “Will you head over to The Highlands?”

  “I thought I might since I’m out this way. I want to see how my other patient is gettin' on.” Doc Johnson walked to his wagon with Merril. “You rest that shoulder, and take care of yourself, son.” Doc frowned and looked uneasily at the house.

  “Thanks, Doc, I will. Would you let Nichole know I'm doing better?”

  “Of course, son.”

  Merril stood away from the buckboard and watched the doctor guide the wagon out of the yard and turn onto the road toward The Highlands.

  Jim walked up beside Merril, leading his brown gelding. “I'm going to ride with Doc back to The Highlands. You'll be all right?”

  “I will. Thank you, Jim. Give Amy my thanks as well.”

  Jim mounted, tipped his hat, then pulled the reins and trotted his horse to catch the wagon.

  Merril turned and looked at the library window. A shadowed figure moved back, and the curtains swayed. Kevin. He needed to talk with that son-of-a-bitch—reach him, somehow. Merril scrubbed his face and shifted his gaze to Midnight pacing in the coral.

  Or I could ride away.

  Freedom versus responsibility held him paralyzed in the yard.

  To walk into that house, which had never felt like home, and reach out to a brother he loathed, would be the hardest thing he had ever done. Kevin had become dangerous, to himself and others. What he did to Toma was unforgivable.

  He needs to be stopped. He needs help.

  Men had begun to return from the branding site. Merril turned at the sound of their voices and watched their camaraderie with envy. He'd known that freedom. But it wasn't just him involved anymore. Whether he could help his brother or not, there was a singular pair of blue eyes he couldn’t bear to disappoint.

  “Well, damn.” He ran a hand through his hair and reset his hat, and then crossed the yard to the porch. He left the door open behind him as he stepped into the library.

  Kevin stood by their father's desk, whiskey glass in hand, and glared at him with malice. “I hoped you'd be dead by now.”

  “Well, I'm not. Put the liquor down. We need to talk.”

  Kevin laughed. “Talk? To you? What the hell do we have to talk about?” He took a gulp from his glass, pressed his lips, and looked back at Merril. “You know nothing about this ranch and have no business being part of it.” The volume of his voice increased as he spoke. His face turned red with anger. Spittle flew from Kevin's mouth, and he wiped it from his face with the back of his hand. “I'll be damned if I'll talk to you.” He crossed to the decanter, refilled his glass, and then returned to the desk.

  Merril shook his head in disgust. Any hope he held to help his brother, if only enough to work with the man, disappeared. Merril hooked his thumbs in his pockets and matched his brother's hate-filled glare. “What a disappointment you would be to Pa. You're nothing but a despicable drunkard, Kevin.”

  Kevin took a long drink and set the glass on the desk. “That's downright funny, coming from someone as worthless as you.”

  Merril felt the heat rise under his collar. “You shot a good man in the back today, you murdering son-of-a-bitch.” He took a step toward Kevin.

  “If you love those red-skinned bastards so much, you should have stayed with them.” Kevin picked up his glass, found it empty, and slammed it on the desk. “Instead, you come back here and fuck our goddamned whore neighbor.” Kevin pointed north, toward The Highlands.

  Merril became motionless. His vision shrank to a point between Kevin's eyes.

  “Didn't you hear me?” Kevin took another step forward and tilted his head, looking his brother in the eye. “I said Nichole Harris is a rutting slut. That cunt fucks her cousin and that giant foreman of hers.” He leaned his face in close to Merril's and grinned. “She'd even fuck a piece of shit like you. She—”

  Merril's fist smashed against Kevin's cheekbone with ferocity, knocking him back.

  Kevin stumbled against the guest chairs and lost his footing, but never reached the floor.

  Merril brought his other fist up into his brother's midsection, driving him up hard against the desk. With his rage an unmanageable beast within his chest, he punched Kevin twice more in the stomach as Kevin gasped for breath.

  Kevin's jaw snapped shut on his tongue as Merril's bloody fist connected with the side of his chin. Kevin fell back across the desk, and Merril wrapped his hands around his throat.

  “Merril, stop this!” Renata ran into the room. “What are you doing? Merril, dear God stop!” She flung herself at Merril and clung to his arm, but her efforts didn't loosen his grip on Kevin's throat. His gun drawn from his holster startled him, and he looked back at Renata.

  Renata held his gun with both hands. Its barrel pointed at his head. Her eyes sparkled, and she chuckled with glee. “You are such a fool. Let him go.”

  With a cry of rage, he flung his brother away with disgust. Kevin fell and lay in a motionless heap beside the desk. Merril turned and yanked the gun from Renata's grasp with one hand, then backhanded her across the face with his other. She fell between the table and the settee, and then pulled herself onto the couch. Her fingers touched the trickle of blood from her nose and lip, and she grinned.

  Merril stood over her, panting with fury and stared at her excitement with bewilderment. The pounding rage in his head and chest eased.

  She reached up, grasped her bodice with both hands and rent it down the middle to her waist. Beneath the garment, her camisole was already torn and bloody. Bite marks and bruises covered her breasts.

  “Your brother likes to bite.” A laugh
escaped her, and then her eyes grew serious and filled with tears. “Release me, Merril! Dear God, someone help me. No—stop it!” Renata's terrified cries echoed down the hall and through the open front door.

  Merril blinked at her. “What the hell are you doing?” His harsh voice frayed as he stared down at her in confusion.

  “No, no ... let me go. Look what you've done. Get out! Don't touch me,” her scream trailed off.

  There was no fear in her eyes to match her desperate cries, only spitefulness, and triumph. The sound of footsteps on the porch brought a hint of a smile to her lips. “If I were you, love, I would leave now.” Her voice bubbled with laughter. “If you wait for the sheriff to arrive, it will only make things harder. He knows how violent you can be. All those men outside, they have witnessed a brutal crime.”

  Her gaze locked with Merril's and her expression became terrified once more. “You've killed him... you've killed your brother! Someone, help me!” Her voice sounded ragged and terrified, and then, she smiled.

  Merril staggered back. He looked from Renata to his brother, who lay still on the floor.

  I did just what they wanted.

  Without a word, he spun on his heels and stalked out. He slammed through several curious cowboys with such force it knocked two of them off the porch. No one tried to stop him or speak to him.

  Renata continued to cry for help, and several men rushed into the house.

  Midnight stood at the water trough in the corral. He raised his head as Merril swung onto his back. With one last glare at The Shilo ranch house and its occupants, he turned and rode away.

  Chapter 27

  Nichole Harris

  Jeanne prepared a bath for Nichole in the small, windowless room attached to the kitchen. Constructed near the stove for hot water, it had a built-in drain pipe, which made the tub easy to empty. Jeanne washed Nichole's hair and set a plate of Cookie's fried chicken within reach. She smiled at Nichole as she dried her hands. “Relax. Enjoy your lunch. Call out if you need anything. Cookie will hear you and find me.”

  Nichole leaned against the slanted back of the tub and plucked a chicken leg from the plate. “Thank you, Jeanne.”

  Jeanne nodded and closed the door behind her.

  The warm bath and the luxurious sensation of Jeanne washing her hair and scalp helped calm Nichole's spirit. Still, each time her eyes closed, she saw Toma lying in the muddy grass, or Merril's pale, gray face as they parted. Her stomach turned, and the chicken bone fell to the plate half-eaten.

  After her skin had been scrubbed clean, she draped the warm washcloth over her face and tried again to close her eyes to relax. A sharp rap on the door jolted her from her rest, and she pulled the cloth from her face. “Who is it?”

  “It's just me.” Amy eased into the room with a smile and closed the door behind her. “I've come to see how you are, and if you need anything. Jason told me you had a terrible experience.”

  Nichole stood without response and wrapped a cloth around her. Careful of her balance, she stepped from the metal tub onto the wooden floor. She took another towel from the shelf and glanced at Amy. “He told you about finding us, and what Kevin did?” She pressed the water from the ends of her hair and then toweled the rest of her hair.

  “Yes, he did.” Amy sat on a stool in the corner. “I'm sorry about your Indian friend.”

  Nichole stopped rubbing her hair and peered out at Amy from beneath the towel.

  “Kevin should be arrested for murder.” Tears tightened her throat, and her glare dared Amy to disagree.

  “Unfortunately, killing an Indian makes him something of a hero around here.”

  “So I was made to understand.” She wrapped the towel around her hair and finished drying herself off with angry motions. “It makes me sick.”

  Amy nodded. “I'm sure you're tired of hearing this, but it would never have bothered you before.”

  Nichole pulled a clean chemise over her head and drew the laces tight. She took a comb from the shelf and teased the snarls from her wet hair. “That doesn't say a hell of a lot for me, you know.”

  Amy shifted in her seat and changed the subject. “Jason also said Blackie Jones tried to kill you.” She took a deep breath before she continued. “I must warn you. He'll try again.”

  The comb stopped, and Nichole shot a curious look at Amy. “You sound as if you already know he'll show up again.”

  “I do know.” Amy's calm eyes returned Nichole's stare.

  “How would you know that?”

  Amy pressed her lips and looked away. “Ever since I was young, I've been able to glimpse events that will transpire at some point in the future. Occasionally, I can see distant events as they occur. People don't understand this—gift. It frightens them.”

  Nichole's scalp tingled. “And what do you see for me?” Her voice was hushed.

  Amy shifted on the stool and cleared her throat. “I realize this sounds preposterous. I wasn't going to tell you. I've never told anyone.” Her gaze lifted and met Nichole’s. “But how else can I warn you about Jones and have you believe me?”

  Nichole slipped her robe over her chemise and gathered her comb and brush. “Let's talk upstairs.”

  Amy nodded, stood, and opened the door. Dry, fragrant air filled the small bathing room as the women stepped into the bright kitchen. Amy smiled and nodded at Cookie, then continued into the dining room and followed Nichole up the stairs. They were silent until they reached the privacy of Nichole's bedchamber and Amy closed the door.

  Nichole paced across the room to her dressing table. “You believe Jones hasn't given up trying to harm me.”

  Amy took a short breath, then opened her eyes and stared at Nichole with calm resolve. “Yes. I’m positive.” She leaned her head against the door and spoke in a hushed voice. “I knew he planned something the other night after he fought with Jimmy Leigh.” She paused and gazed steadily into Nichole's eyes. “And I know, with certainty, he'll come after you again.”

  Nichole set the comb down shivered. Gooseflesh raised the hair on her arms in the warm room. “I wish you had told me earlier.” Nichole’s flat voice masked her astonishment. Holy shit. What Amy confessed was similar to what she had experienced herself.

  “I know. But would you have believed me?” Amy expelled a long breath. “Besides, I thought I might be wrong.”

  Nichole looked up. “Are you often wrong?” Her thoughts skipped back to Custer, and all she'd told Gray Wolf and Merril.

  “Only once.” Amy shrugged and paced away from the door. “The day before your accident.” She paused and regarded Nichole. “I had a premonition in Denver. A strong one. I saw the carriage accident and your injury. However, in my premonition, you—” Amy spun and paced toward the door, gesturing with her hand. “You didn’t survive. So, you see, I can be wrong.”

  Nichole’s throat tightened, and she gripped the edge of the dressing table. Her hand rose trembling to her mouth.

  When Amy looked back, her eyes widened, and she rushed across the room, putting her arm around Nichole. “Are you faint?” She drew Nichole to the bed, sat beside her, and took her hand. “That was thoughtless of me, to tell you such a horrible thing. Of course, I was mistaken.” She patted Nichole's hand.

  Nichole glanced at Amy, then looked away and swallowed. “It's not that, or at least, not just that. I ... it's something the old Indian said about me when we were with the Cheyenne.”

  Amy tipped her head “What is that?”

  Nichole looked down at their hands. “White Eagle said that to look at me was to see someone who had been through the hall of the dead.” She looked back to her friend.

  Amy searched Nichole’s eyes. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Nichole admitted.

  “Who was this man?”

  “White Eagle is a shaman or medicine man. He's also Gray Wolf's grandfather.” She bit her lip. “He talked to his spirits, or they talked to him, about me. He only speaks Cheyenne, so I didn'
t understand what he said. All I know is what Merril translated for me.” She blinked tears from her eyes and sighed. “Amy, what's happening to me?”

  Amy opened her mouth, and then shut it. She rose and walked to the dressing table. “I don't know, Nicki.” She turned and gazed at her friend. “Has anything else happened? I can't make any sense out of this, and I can't—”

  Nichole held up her hand, and Amy fell silent. Nichole chewed at her bottom lip for a moment more, and then her gaze jumped to meet Amy's. “Do you know who General Custer is?”

  Amy’s brows drew together. “I've heard talk of a Lieutenant Custer, but I don't know him personally.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Battle of the Little Bighorn?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Last night, I told Merril and his friend, Gray Wolf, that General Custer died there... and Amy, I know he did.” Nichole lurched to her feet and paced across the room to the balcony door, rubbing her arms. “The battle where General Custer loses his life is called Custer's Last Stand. Or, it will be.” Nichole turned to gauge Amy’s reaction, but Amy only shook her head.

  A knock on the door broke the silence and startled them both.

  “Nicki?” Jeanne's voice sounded muffled through the door. “Doc Johnson is here to see you. Shall I send him up?”

  Nichole looked from the door to Amy. “He must have been to see Merril.” She wound her wet tresses in a loose bun on top her head, picked up two pins from the dressing table and secured it.

  “Yes, Jeanne,” she called and tightened her robe belt. “Send him up, please.”

  “What will you do?” Amy opened the door. From below, they could hear Jeanne's voice call to the Doc, and his laughing reply.

  Nichole's shoulders rose with her eyebrows. “I don't know. Wait and see if something else happens—hope more of my memory comes back.”

  Amy cast a quick glance at the empty stairs, then back to Nichole. “I'd like to discuss this more if you don't mind.”

  “Not in the least. It's good to have someone to talk to about... weird things.”

  “Well, well,” Doc Johnson’s voice boomed out. He stopped in the doorway and gave Nichole an appraising look. “I must say you look better than my last patient.”