by Cat Cahill
It worked—and she instantly wished it hadn’t. Not when Andrew’s shoulders slumped forward and a stricken look crossed his face. He said nothing at all. Instead, he appeared to curl into himself like a leaf near a flame.
She’d hurt him badly, she knew that right away. But as much as she wanted to apologize and take him into her arms, the terror that seemed to control her led her away. She saddled Miriam and rode off with the shotgun to town, leaving Andrew and everything she’d built with him behind.
Chapter Twenty
Andrew didn’t know how long he’d stood there. Minutes, probably, but they dragged on as he was too numb to move or to call after her. He heard Ivy’s words in his head over and over.
Not unless you cause me to have an accident like you did Mary.
She might as well have shot him. The words tore through his insides like a bullet, ripping apart everything he’d thought had healed. It felt like November of two years ago, again, and he heard the echo of the shotgun blast as if it had just happened. The burning in his lungs as he ran toward the sound. And the lack of air when he found Mary, crumpled and bleeding from the explosion.
She’d begged to help him hunt. They hadn’t had fresh meat in a month, and she’d grown up hunting with her father and brothers. He finally relented, only for that to be the day the old shotgun had backfired. He should’ve given her the new shotgun. He should’ve been there with her. He shouldn’t have let her go at all.
It was his fault, he’d thought for over a year. The townsfolk seemingly agreed, and he hadn’t touched the gun, hadn’t hunted at all, since then. He’d subsisted on salted meat purchased in town all winter. Only recently had he begun to think that while there were many things he should have done, he thought he felt some sort of forgiveness. That Mary was resting peacefully and letting him go. That maybe he might be able to find some joy in life again.
But now Ivy had done the one thing he never thought she would. He should’ve asked if she could use a shotgun, and then he should’ve locked it away somewhere. He’d only kept it out for protection, and even then, he didn’t know if he could bring himself to pick it up. And now Ivy had run off with it, after reminding him that if she died, it would be his fault.
Andrew slowly stepped backward, toward the kitchen. Falling into a chair, he dropped his face into his hands. What sort of husband was he, to let her leave that way? He should have gone after her and stopped her. Why couldn’t he? A stronger man would have cast off the cruel words she’d thrown at him and taken that shotgun from her. A kinder man would have agreed to take her to town right away. A better man would have convinced her she and the children were safe here.
He was none of those things.
Instead, he sat in this chair like a broken man. He shouldn’t have ever placed that advertisement. He’d let the loneliness get the better of him, and now look at where he was. Look at where Ivy was.
He dug his knuckles into his eyes. Not only had she put herself into danger—and he’d let her!—she believed the town’s gossip that he’d caused Mary’s death. She believed what he’d thought true himself for so long.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he’d deluded himself with thoughts of forgiveness because of the way she looked at him with those pretty hazel eyes. With the way she curled herself into him when he’d kissed her.
She didn’t trust him. She never had. And he shouldn’t have trusted himself.
If only she hadn’t carved out a piece of his heart and taken it with her. If only he didn’t love those children so much. Then maybe he could rebuild that wall he’d hidden behind for so long.
As much as he didn’t deserve them, he didn’t know if he could live without them.
Chapter Twenty-one
Ivy held on to Miriam for dear life as she rushed to town.
A rock sat in her stomach as they went on, past lonely pines and small hills covered in scrub and dotted with cheerful golden asters. The breeze made the grass bend and lifted Ivy’s hair, but her mind was far away from the landscape around her and the lovely day. It flitted back and forth between the children and Andrew. If she didn’t get to the schoolhouse fast enough, would Mr. St. Clair get there first? Perhaps Andrew was right, and it would take more time for him to arrive. After all, it had taken months for him to notify her of his intentions to begin with. But her gut said otherwise. The fear that threatened to consume her whole would not go away until Oliver and Sarah were within her sight.
And Andrew . . . Ivy’s heart ached over the words she’d spat at him before she left. She’d been so desperate to get to town, as fast as possible, and he wasn’t understanding that. If only he’d agreed to take her right away, then maybe he’d be by her side now and not back at the homestead with that scarred look on his face. Ivy wasn’t sure if anything she could say now could make up for what she’d said before.
He didn’t understand because you didn’t tell him everything. Maggie’s voice echoed in her head, putting a voice to the guilty thoughts that sat at the edge of her consciousness. If she’d told him that Mr. St. Clair also sought to marry her, what could Andrew have done? Would he have been angry? Or protective? She’d kept that information from him in shame, out of the belief that he’d blame her for Mr. St. Clair’s interest in her. But if she’d told him, then maybe he would have better understood her insistence.
She didn’t know what Mr. St. Clair would do when he found out she’d married. He was a man who always got what he wanted, and she wouldn’t have put it past him to steal the children or to ensure Andrew was out of her life—and out of his way—for good.
She couldn’t bear to live with either of those possibilities. She’d live without Andrew before letting anything happen to him. He deserved to live. He deserved to find someone else to marry if Mr. St. Clair somehow maneuvered an annulment of her marriage and took both her and the children away.
The buildings in town began to take shape as the sky-piercing Sangre de Cristo mountains grew closer. Ivy pushed Miriam harder, until they were nearly galloping. She slowed when they reached the edge of town, out of fear she’d run someone over. Outside the schoolhouse, Ivy wound Miriam’s reins around a post as best she could.
“Mrs. Chisholm?” An unfamiliar female voice caused Ivy to turn around, her heart thudding at the unexpected interruption.
A young woman, perhaps only a couple of years younger than Ivy herself, and dressed in a sort of uniform consisting of a gray dress and white apron with a matching hat perched on her head, stood behind Ivy.
“I’m Mrs. Chisholm.” Ivy gave the woman a hasty smile before glancing at the schoolhouse. As much as she’d wanted to meet the people in town and dispel their stares, now was not the time.
“I’m Adelaide Young,” the girl said. “I work up at the hotel as a waitress.”
Ivy shifted her weight impatiently. The girl was friendly enough, with a smile and golden curls that fought the pins that held them to the back of her head. But she needed to get the children. Now.
“There was a gentleman asking about you earlier,” Miss Young went on. “I told him I knew who you were but not where your homestead was. He was well-dressed, handsome, but . . .” Miss Young cut herself short, as if she were about to say something she decided not to.
Ivy’s stomach churned. It was him. In the deepest part of her bones, she knew it was him. She glanced about her, certain he was lurking nearby, but she spotted only strangers and a handful of folks she recognized from Sunday services. “Did he leave a name?”
“That’s just it. He did, but I’m sorry, I can’t remember it. It was Saint . . . Something.”
Ivy gripped the post. She needed to move. Now. But it was as if she’d forgotten how. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Are you all right?” The girl tilted her head. “Do you need to rest a moment? You look as if you had a hard ride here.”
Ivy shook her head. “No. I can’t sit. I need to . . .” The schoolhouse swam in front of her eyes. Now was
not the time to faint. Oliver and Sarah depended on her to keep them safe. Whatever happened to her, she wouldn’t let Mr. St. Clair get the children.
She moved one foot, and then the other. It felt as if she were walking through a river with a strong current. But she forced her way through. And by the time she reached the schoolhouse door, the world was clearer again. She had one goal: get the children.
Ivy burst through the door as Miss Young watched her from the wooden sidewalk. The teacher and the entire class looked up, startled. One girl dropped her slate to her desk, the clatter echoing through the room. Oliver stood at his place, looking unsure whether he should come to her, and Sarah’s eyes widened. Ivy had never been so happy to see them in her life. They were here, safe and unharmed.
Miss Vance, the teacher, quickly instructed the class to continue working on their mathematics as she scurried to the door. “Mrs. Chisholm? Is everything well?”
“No. I need Oliver and Sarah to come with me, now.” The urgency she felt must have carried through in her voice, because Miss Vance didn’t hesitate. She motioned to Oliver and Sarah, who quickly scooped up their things and came to the door.
“Is there anything I can do?” Miss Vance asked, wringing her hands.
“I’m afraid not, but thank you,” Ivy said, taking the children’s hands in hers. She clutched them as if she’d never let them go.
Miss Vance looked as if she had a hundred more questions, but Ivy scooted the children out the door quickly.
“What’s happening?” Sarah asked, as Oliver chimed in with, “Is Uncle Andrew all right?”
Ivy’s heart tore. Of course he’d fear losing Andrew, after having lost both of his parents. “He’s fine, I promise. But we must leave town right now. I’ll tell you more later.”
She mounted Miriam and reached down to pull both children behind her. She hoped their weight wasn’t too much for Miriam, who must be exhausted from their ride here. Had she been thinking clearly, she also would have brought Henry.
She scanned the vicinity for anyone who bore any resemblance to Mr. St. Clair. Seeing no one, she nudged the mule forward.
“Are we going home?” Sarah asked, her little arms holding on to Ivy’s waist.
“We . . .” Ivy trailed off. Where would they go? If Mr. St. Clair was in town, asking about her, it wouldn’t be long before he found someone who knew where Andrew’s homestead was. He might already be on his way there now. How she hadn’t run into him on her own way into town was a miracle itself.
She couldn’t bring Oliver and Sarah back to the house. They needed to hide somewhere.
She scanned the town around them. The hotel on the hill. The depot and post office. The hardware store. A saloon. The church could be a good option, but she wasn’t certain the minister would be there in the middle of the day on a Tuesday.
Her eyes landed on the general store. Caroline. She’d been so kind to Ivy, and they’d chatted a couple more times when Ivy had accompanied Andrew into town. Caroline and her husband lived above their store. She had the room, and Mr. St. Clair would never guess they were there. Perhaps she would keep the children for a bit.
Ten minutes later, Ivy emerged from the store. Caroline had been more than happy to put the children upstairs. She’d even promised them cake if they remained quiet. She’d begged Ivy to stay too, but that was impossible.
If Mr. St. Clair was going to the homestead, that meant Andrew wasn’t safe. And she had his shotgun, leaving him nothing with which to protect himself but his own hands. And while she knew he was more than capable of defending himself that way, what would happen if Mr. St. Clair had brought something more deadly?
Heart in her throat, Ivy forced herself to stop at the marshal’s office. Inside, only his wife sat at the desk, manning it while her husband made his rounds. Ivy told the slight young woman with the spectacles everything, and Mrs. Wright agreed to inform her husband immediately upon his return. She asked Ivy to wait, but Ivy was already halfway out the door. She couldn’t wait, not when Andrew might be in danger.
She urged Miriam out of town, constantly searching around her for the familiar face she hoped not to see but at the same time, knew that if she did, it would mean Andrew was safe at home.
She’d give Mr. St. Clair anything to keep him away from Andrew.
Chapter Twenty-two
The lowing of the cow finally roused Andrew from the kitchen chair. His feelings didn’t matter when there was work to be done.
He went through the motions, checking the animals and then taking Henry out to the fields to harvest some of the cauliflower. But the usual anticipation of selling the vegetables to businesses in town wasn’t there. What did money matter when his life might now be empty?
He’d been dreaming when he thought he’d finally found happiness again. A man who let his wife take a shotgun hunting when there was really no need for her to go didn’t deserve happiness.
Particularly when he let it happen again.
He filled the sacks he’d brought and slung them over the mule. Henry shuffled, as if he knew something wasn’t right. Andrew scratched him on the neck, but the mule didn’t settle. He shifted from foot to foot, huffing air from his nose and throwing his head up and down.
“Whoa, boy.” Andrew kept a hand on the mule’s neck, trying to calm him, but to no avail. Henry sensed something was wrong. Andrew paused, his hand stilling. What if Henry sensed something more than Andrew’s broken heart?
His heart picked up rhythm as he scanned the land around him. The low rise of the mountains to the east, the barest outlines of the house and the barn to the north, more fields to the south, and then the empty grass and sage-covered valley to the west. Nothing looked out of place. Not a man or animal was in sight.
But the feeling didn’t leave. As Henry huffed again, worry began to overtake the great sadness that had settled in since Ivy had taken up that shotgun and walked out the door.
What if she was right?
He let go of Henry and rubbed the back of his gloved hand across his eyes. Perhaps she wasn’t overreacting at all. He’d had the suspicion there was more to the situation—something she wouldn’t tell him. That something was dangerous, he knew that in his gut. Why he didn’t figure that out two hours ago when he could have done something sooner, he didn’t know. He only hoped it wouldn’t be something else he’d never forgive himself for.
Andrew threw himself onto Henry and made for the house. He had to go after her, if only to assure that both she and the children were safe. She could hate him, if she wanted, but at least she’d be safe.
He urged Henry to move faster. He would not lose Ivy. Wouldn’t lose Oliver and Sarah. Having Ivy reject him for his stubborn refusal to help immediately or for his inaction when she’d picked up that shotgun would hurt, but letting this St. Clair get his hands on the children would tear an irreparable hole through Andrew’s soul. And what would the man do to Ivy for having taken them away?
The fear drove him forward. He leapt off Henry the second the mule stopped by the house. He didn’t bother corralling him, instead tethering the reins to the porch rail since he’d only be inside a moment. He pulled off the sacks and brought them into the house. He dumped them in the kitchen, heads of cauliflower spilling out next to the broom Ivy had abandoned against the table. Then he raced back to the door. He yanked it open—and stopped.
There, standing on the small porch, was a man in a gray suit with a black string tie, holding a pistol pointed directly at Andrew.
Chapter Twenty-three
Ivy slowed Miriam as they arrived at the homestead. She was thirsty, hot, and disheveled, but any thoughts of her own discomfort evaporated the second she spotted the horse.
The handsome chestnut gelding stood chewing the grass in front of the house as if nothing was amiss. He wasn’t tethered to anything, and his rider clearly hadn’t bothered to put him in the corral or the barn. Even more worrisome was Henry, waiting with his reins tied to the porch rail. That wasn’t
like Andrew at all. He might have done such a thing in a hurry, but only when he meant to be very brief, as Ivy had been at the schoolhouse. He wouldn’t have left Henry tied up like this for long . . . unless something prevented him from coming back outside. And with the strange horse waiting in front of the house, Ivy knew exactly what that something was.
Heart in her throat, Ivy turned Miriam back to the far side of the barn where they couldn’t be seen from the house. She slid off the mule, quickly removed the saddle, and then—quietly, carefully—let Miriam into the corral. The mule went immediately to the water trough, and Ivy took up the shotgun and the cartridges she’d laid against the wooden fence. She wished she knew how to use the thing. All she could hope for at this point was that she could look confident enough to make Mr. St. Clair believe she knew how to use it.
Her throat grew drier as she approached the porch steps, so much that she could barely swallow. Running her tongue over her parched lips, Ivy tiptoed up the steps. To her great relief, not a one of them creaked under her weight. She paused between the door and the window. If she leaned to the side just a little, she’d be able to see inside the parlor.
But just as she moved, the front door flew open.
And there, with a shiny pistol pointed inside the house, stood Mr. St. Clair.
Ivy gasped, a hand flying to her heart, at his sudden appearance. The shotgun hung limply in her other hand as the belt of cartridges fell to the porch. She ought to raise the gun, point it at the blond man who now stood before her, and demand he leave her and her family alone forever.
But he had the upper hand, and she knew it. His revolver was pointed at Andrew, who stood just inside the door. If Ivy raised the shotgun now, it was possible that Mr. St. Clair might shoot Andrew before she even moved an inch. He knew it too. She could tell from the way he glanced down at her hand, a smirk crossing his face.
