by Angela Scott
She looked around. "Well, I do have this wagon in the barn that needs a wheel replaced, and there're a few dishes that need washing, but really, we're fine. It was just nice to share our table with you all. I'd hate to put you out."
"You're not putting us out—"
"I'll help Wen with the wagon," Red jumped up, interrupting Trace. "I guess that leaves the dishes for you." She grinned.
Trace just nodded. There was no point arguing with her, though he wanted to something fierce. Dishes were a woman's chore.
"Rivers," the mother addressed the girl. "Help with the dishes and I'll show our guests to the barn. Fisher, stay here." She pointed to the boy who didn't even acknowledge her.
The girl pulled her hair back into a ponytail and lifted a large pot off the wood-burning stove. "It's hot," she said as she handed it to Trace to pour in the metal wash bin.
Those were the first words either of the children had uttered. For a while there, he'd wondered if they were both mute.
"Rivers?" he said, trying to make conversation. "That's a pretty name. Different, but pretty."
"My pa named me. He liked to go fishing when he was alive." She nodded toward her brother, who pushed the train back and forth, over and over. "That's why his name's Fisher."
He nodded and rolled up his sleeves, ready to get to work on the small pile of pots and pans. "They're both good names."
Rivers placed her hand on his arm to stop him from washing the dishes. The ten-year-old girl's grip took him by surprise, reminding him of Red's inhuman strength the night of her fever. He looked down to see her tiny hand squeezing the feeling out of his arm.
"You need to go," she said.
"We'll be going as soon as we finish the—"
She shook her head and gripped his arm tighter. "No. You need to go now."
Her eyes filled up with tears. She motioned for him to lower his head, so he bent to her level. She might have ripped his arm off otherwise.
Her voice lowered to a whisper. "You're not safe here."
"What's going on, Rivers? What aren't you telling me?"
"Just go. Go save your friends and get out of here."
This kid was no normal little girl—not with a grip like that—and the intensity with which she spoke frightened him. This was exactly why he didn't care much for kids.
Rivers released his arm and gave him a forceful shove toward the door. "Go!"
He made to leave, intent on taking the girl's advice. Something wasn't right here and she did her best to warn him.
A loud thump came from the next room and Trace froze. The repeated banging grew louder and louder, followed by the agitated wail of a baby—a baby in dire distress.
He looked at Rivers. She stood motionless and stared at the closed door. Fisher stopped playing with the train, tucked his head into his lap, and began to rock back and forth.
Trace approached the door—he couldn't just ignore a screaming infant. He touched the handle and—
Rivers snatched his hand. "Don't do it. Don't go in there!"
He opened the door, and Rivers stepped away. "I warned you," she said.
Fisher began to whimper, and Rivers went to him, covering his small body with her own. "It's okay. It's okay."
The thick smell of blood hit him like a punch to the stomach. The rancid air was suffocating and his gag reflex threatened to make him vomit. He covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm to diffuse it.
A wooden cradle, pressed up against the far wall, rocked viciously side-to-side as the occupant waved its tiny arms over the top railing. The howls were almost deafening.
What in the hell?
Miniature hands reached up and clasped the side of the cradle. The baby slowly pulled itself to a standing position on bowed legs. When its cloudy eyes fixed on Trace, the baby shook the cradle harder, tossed back its baldhead, and growled with desire. The baby wanted him.
Holy...!
Blood and entrails littered the floor in a coagulated coating. The skull of an animal, a human hand, and various other pieces and parts. They were feeding it. They're keeping it alive!
He turned to leave, determined to find Red and Wen and get the hell out of there, but he came face-to-face with the mother, who watched him with a blank expression.
She didn't have to say anything. The Winchester .44 rifle aimed at his chest told him everything he needed to know.
Chapter 13 – Can a Woman Forget Her Suckling Child?
Straw. Dirt floor. Cow.
Tiny points of light tiptoed across Red's vision. She blinked a few times in an attempt to focus her eyes, but the haziness persisted. The back of her head throbbed and she searched for the source of the pain, wincing when she touched a goose egg-sized knot at the base of her skull.
She pulled her hand away and cringed at the sight of thick blood coating her fingertips.
What in the world?
She pushed herself into a sitting position. A sharp pain raced across her forehead and down her neck and a wave of vertigo threatened to topple her over once more. A ringing sound like a continual high pitched whistle came from inside her eardrums. Not good. She blinked a few more times.
The cabin. The mother. The broken wagon that didn't exist. The metal shovel to the back of the head. She hadn't seen it coming.
Red felt she deserved the knock to the head, if for no other reason than to remind her that she needed to be more careful and trust no one. She'd fallen for an illusion before, and this time she should've known better.
She glanced around and sized up her situation—a wooden barn, closed door, farming equipment, and Wen sprawled out on the dirt beside her, face down and unconscious.
Wen!
She crawled toward him on her hands and knees, spurred forward by the sight of her motionless friend. He bled from the back of his head as well, but his lump appeared more ominous than her own. She didn't want to turn him over onto his wound, but she needed to know if he was alive. Red placed her hand near his mouth and felt warm breath pass through his lips.
Relieved, she let out her own, and tried to rouse him. "Wen, please wake up."
He lay still.
She tried to make sense of what had happened. That diminutive woman couldn't have taken them both down without a fight, but aside from the contusion on the back of her head, she was perfectly fine. Wen appeared the same—no cuts, no bruises, just the ominous, blood-oozing knot that had sent him into oblivion.
The outhouse!
As they'd walked toward the barn, the woman asked Wen to check out the roof of the outhouse, which needed to be patched. She'd asked him to take a look at it and see if it was fixable. Of course, Wen quickly obliged.
The woman must have nailed Red while Wen was out back, and then waited for Wen to return, to take him by surprise as well. Had they been together, it wouldn't have happened. A pretty, petite widow with two kids didn't seem like much of a threat. Everything about the woman, the barn, and the kids just didn't add up. What did she want with them? And where was Cowboy? Besides the family cow, she and Wen were alone in the barn. Either he would come looking for them, or....
Red refused to consider that possibility.
"Wen." She tried again to wake him. "Come on, Wen, open your eyes." He moaned a response, but his eyes remained closed.
Her guns.
She reached for them, but found her holsters empty. Even the pistol she kept strapped to her thigh was gone. She searched around Wen and found his guns missing as well. The mother had rendered them helpless.
She looked around the barn. There were no windows—the only way out was through a hinged door at the front. She struggled to her feet, limped over to the door, and pushed against it. Locked, of course. The mother wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of bashing them over the head to simply leave the door unbarred.
Red slammed her shoulder into the door, but the wooden bar held strong. She looked around the barn, breathing hard from her efforts. There had to be a way out—someth
ing she'd missed, something she could use. With one hand on the back of her head, she ambled around in search of anything that might help.
The farm equipment—a plow and a harrow—were useless, much too big for her to maneuver without a horse. Even then, what would she do? Use the horse to ram the sides of the barn? There had to be something else.
She spied some buckets, bales of hay, and various useless odds and ends.
Red staggered along the walls, searching for a weak spot, a section of wall that didn't meet with the floor. She kicked against the railing of the animal pen and the cow protested in fear. It didn't matter. Neither a frightened cow nor the continued throb of her head would stop her. If she could get a board loose, it would help even the odds.
The board weakened, and she grasped it with both hands, yanking it back and forth until the rusty nails pulled away and she fell backward with a section of the wall in her hand. The pain in her head returned in full force from the fall, and she instinctually grabbed it with both hands, rocking back and forth to ease the pressure.
When the aching settled, she crawled over to Wen. His breathing was shallow, but he was alive. The woman must have walloped him good.
She gently touched his face. "I sure wish you'd wake up. Together we could take her."
Footsteps approached the barn.
She jumped to her feet, ignoring the pain, and positioned herself near the door with the broken board in hand.
Someone began to move the wooden latch and it scraped against the outside of the door. The barn door opened, and Red swung the board with all her strength, but pulled back at the last possible moment to avoid hitting the little girl. The girl's eyes widened as she glanced from Red, to the board in her hands, to Wen lying on the ground.
"Go." The girl looked terrified. "Go now."
Red pushed the girl aside and started for the house. She needed to find Cowboy. She approached the property with trepidation—she didn't want to risk getting either of them killed with an ill-timed attempt at heroism.
Inside, Cowboy argued, begged, pleaded with the woman. Although she couldn't understand his muffled words, his tone said it all. He was alive, but something was horribly wrong.
She peeked through the kitchen window and found him tied to a chair with one arm stretched and bound tightly over the surface of the table. The interior filled with the sound of animal howls and pounding noises, but Red couldn't find the source. The insanity of what she witnessed left no room for comprehension.
"Don't do it! Please!" Cowboy pleaded. "Don't!"
The mother planned to slaughter him—one piece at a time. She stormed into the cabin and swung the board with more strength than she thought she possessed. It connected with the mother's head and she fell to her knees. The silver-bladed butcher knife clattered on the floor beside her.
Red continued to hold the board above her head for another strike, but the mother didn't get up. A four-inch nail had penetrated her skull and blood dripped down the side of her face and neck, disappearing in tiny rivers beneath her dress. She stared up at her assailant, shocked and dazed.
Red was tempted to hit her again, but the mother's eyes rolled back and she collapsed onto the floor.
The growling and gnashing sounds persisted, but she could only focus on Cowboy. The fear and gratitude in his eyes nearly brought her to tears. She threw the board down and ran to him, tearing at the knots that bound him to the chair. Once she released the ropes, he used his free hand to rip away the others that bound his arm to the table. He pulled her toward him, crushing her body against his chest.
"I thought you were dead." He squeezed her once more and then grasped her face in his hands. "Thank you. Thank you for not being dead. And for saving me—my arm."
He kissed her roughly, which came as a welcomed surprise. Cowboy clung to her and she gave in to his embrace, reveling in the feel of his arms around her. If the little girl hadn't opened the barn door when she did, everything would be different right now.
"Can a woman forget her suckling child? He's the son of my womb!"
Red whipped around and saw the mother standing on shaky legs, thrusting the butcher knife in front of her to emphasize her words.
"Then shalt thou say in thine heart, who hath begotten me these, seeing I have lost my children, and am desolate, a captive, and removing to and fro?"
Cowboy shoved Red behind him as the crazed woman dragged herself forward. Red wished she'd hit her a second time.
"My baby's hungry, and I will give her what she wants! I will not forget my suckling child."
Baby? Red's eyes widened. The screeching and pounding is coming from a baby?
Cowboy grabbed a chair and held it in front of him. "That creature in there is not your baby, and you know it."
The woman shook her head. "She's my baby. My baby! She's just sick, is all. And until she gets better, I will do what I have to."
"You can't believe that—"
She waved the knife within inches of his face. "I will do what I have to do!"
Red's makeshift weapon lay on the floor on the other side of the room, out of reach. The chair in Cowboy's hands held the woman back, but as she moved closer, they backed themselves into a corner with no way to defend themselves. Cowboy tipped the table over and created a wall, but the woman only tilted her head and smiled.
The racket from the other room persisted, a shriek that dug at Red's eardrums like a beetle burrowing into her brain. It pricked her spine and filled her with the desire to throttle its neck and end the noise.
"It's okay, sweetheart!" The mother cooed, "I'm coming, darling."
The baby howled louder and the mother grinned with wild determination before lunging forward. A blast vibrated off the walls and silenced everything, including the little monster who bawled in the bedroom. A heavy hush hung in the air.
The mother dropped her knife and clutched her middle as blood seeped between her fingers. The fine white apron she wore slowly turned a grisly reddish-brown, and when her last breath escaped her lips, she tumbled in slow motion to the floor.
The blond-haired girl stood in the open doorway, eyes frozen wide, clutching Red's Colt pocket pistol in her shaky hands.
Chapter 14 – The Right Thing
The little girl bent down and carefully laid the gun at her feet. She took a cautious step back, watching both Red and Cowboy with a blank expression. She held her shoulders straight and strong, but her hands trembled.
"Rivers—" Cowboy moved toward her, but the girl turned and bolted out the door. "Rivers!"
Red placed a hand on his arm. "Let me," she said. "I'll go find her and the boy. You go check on Wen. He's in the barn."
"Is he okay?"
"He's alive."
Cowboy nodded, comprehending.
The baby started to howl and pound the wall once again, and they both turned their heads in the direction of the bedroom.
Cowboy sighed. "What do we do with that thing?"
Red didn't have a clue. She'd never killed a baby before and wasn't sure she could. "Leave it." She glanced at the mother, prone on the floor in a pool of her own blood. "Leave it all for now. The dead can wait. We need to take care of the living."
She found the girl under the shadow of a pine tree, hugging her knees to her chest. A few yards away, the boy sat beneath another tree with his hands clasped around Lasso, burying his face in the dog's fur. Lasso's dark eyes tracked Red, but he made no move to untangle himself from the boy's thin arms.
Good dog. He was exactly where he needed to be.
She lowered herself next to the girl and they sat together in silence. When the girl needed to talk, Red would be there, ready to listen. The fragrance of pine infused the air, and needles blanketed the ground. A calm wind rustled the branches above, but there were no animal sounds or bird chatter. They'd probably long since disappeared from this place.
Red pulled her own legs up to her chest, mimicking the girl. She couldn't leave these children here. They'd never
survive this far away from civilization without an adult to take care of their needs. Perhaps one of the camps would take them in. She could take them there and deposit them at the gates. What other options did she have?
"I couldn't let her hurt you," Rivers said. "No more. Not again."
Red nodded. "I know. Thank you."
"Is she dead?"
"Yeah, she is."
The girl wiped her eyes and laid her head on her knees. "I didn't want to kill her."
"I know."
Rivers' small shoulders shook and she covered her face.
Red slid closer and placed a hand on the girl's arm. She wanted to tell her everything would be fine, but the girl and her brother would never be fine again.
"Doing the right thing isn't always easy." She raised the girl's quivering chin and looked her in the eyes. "This plague has forced me to do things I never thought I could do. Especially to the people I loved."
Rivers threw her arms around Red and cried into her neck. "I killed my momma."
Red nodded, smoothing her hair. "I know exactly how you're feeling. I killed my pa." The revelation startled the girl and she looked up. Red nodded. "I had to. I had no other choice."
"Did I have a choice?"
"No, you didn't. You saved our lives."
Rivers hugged her tighter, shaking uncontrollably as sobs escaped her tiny body. "I'm scared."
"I know," Red whispered. "I know more than you think."
***
"Are you going to kill my baby sister?" Rivers stood near the barn with Fisher's arms wrapped around her waist.
Wen positioned himself behind them, woozy and in a great deal of pain, and placed a hand on each of their fragile shoulders.
Cowboy looked to Red and she nodded. "We need to let her go. Give her peace. It's the right thing to do."
"Are you going to shoot her?" Fisher's voice wavered.
Red shook her head. She glanced at Cowboy and Wen who stared at her in disbelief. Did they really expect her to put a bullet in the infant's head? No, she would take care of the situation the only humane way she knew how.
