by Carol Arens
She and Ivy should have had no trouble overpowering Brunne, but being crazed with hate gave the old woman unusual strength.
Hate was not her sole advantage, as it turned out. Her large pocket contained more than laudanum.
She drew out a wicked-looking knife. Sliced the air near Ivy’s face.
“Put it down, Mother. If you kill Ivy and go to jail, what will I do?” Agatha eased slowly to her feet. “You are the only one I can trust, remember?”
“Sweet Agatha, come to me, child. We’ll be together and your sister can go home.” Apparently she had forgotten baby Maggie, kidnapped to Ivy’s breasts.
“You must give me the knife. I’ll be too overwrought to take my medicine if you don’t.”
“Here, my obedient child.” Brunne held out her arms. “I’ll give you the knife and the medicine.”
“No!” Ivy warned. “Don’t trust her. Back away!”
Ivy scrambled to her feet but Agatha had already entered the spider’s web.
Brunne lifted the knife to her throat. She felt the sting when the blade pricked the pulse in her vein.
“You must think I’m mad, Agatha English, if you think I’ll believe your pretty words.” From the corner of her eye Agatha watched a pearl of red drip down the blade. “You told me to look at you? Well, I did. You’ve become a stranger—no, not that—a deceiver. An enemy.”
“You won’t hurt me, Mother?” Of course she would. Hate had been her guiding motive all Agatha’s life.
“Do you think I will, Ivy? Will I cut her throat open in order to get my Maggie back from you?”
“Let her go or I’ll skin you alive, you hateful besom.”
Brunne reached into the pocket again. “Take this.”
What other horrid thing might she have hidden in there?
It was a ball of twine. She tossed it at Ivy. “Wrap one of your hands to the bedpost.”
She had never seen her sister back down from anything, but she did now. Hands trembling, Ivy picked the twine off the floor then tethered one of her hands to the bedpost.
Inch by slow inch, Brunne lowered the knife from Agatha’s throat.
Before she could spin about, wrest the blade from her hand, the maniac moved, pressed the blade to Ivy’s temple.
“Wrap your hand to the other post, Agatha—no, not that one. At the other end. I’m going to get my child and I won’t have you interfering.”
Swiftly, she sliced the twine and tossed it to Agatha. Ivy took that instant to clout the nurse in the head. She wrestled for the knife but all she got was a cut on her inner arm.
Terrified, Agatha bound her wrist to the post. That blasted blade was only inches from her sister’s heart now.
Brunne slit the twine then secured her other hand.
Setting the knife on the floor beside her boot, Brunne secured Ivy’s free hand.
“Oh, you are both bleeding,” she cooed. “You do understand it’s what you get for keeping my baby from me all these years.”
“Clara is not your baby, Hilda!” Agatha said, not really believing the voice of truth would have any sway. “She’s Ivy’s baby.”
“Perhaps she is. Maybe you are right when you say I’m mad.” She spun her glare to Ivy. “It doesn’t matter to me. You took my babies. I’ll take yours.”
“I’ll gnaw through this binding before you have the chance!” Ivy’s dark look back at Brunne should have made the woman quake.
“I imagine you could, given time.” Brunne giggled. The depraved sound was like nothing Agatha had heard before. “Oh, but you don’t have time.”
Glancing about for her cane, she spotted it and hobbled toward it, crippled once again. Picking it up she went into the hallway.
Her skirt hadn’t cleared the doorway before both she and Ivy began to pick at the twine with their teeth.
It would take a while, but it could be bitten through.
The scent of kerosene grew stronger in the hallway.
“Hey! Are you crazy?” It was the voice of the young man who had directed Agatha to Brunne. “Put that down.”
There was a thump, the sound of a body slumping to the floor.
Hilda returned dribbling lantern fuel across room.
“Poor boy slipped in the hallway. I hope he comes to before the fire reaches him.”
Hilda Brunne set the can of fuel on the floor only feet from the bed.
She struck a match, tossed it into the hallway.
* * *
On a run toward the saloon, William made a mental list of the ways he would chastise—no, not that, remind—his wife of how she needed to be more careful.
Confronting Brunne on her own was a foolish thing to do. He never should have admitted that the woman was in town and working for Pete.
From a block away, he heard the sounds of revelry. Laughter, cursing, the pounding of piano keys. It was a far thing from the elegant event he’d just walked out of.
And somewhere in that debauchery, Agatha was confronting the devil. Did she think she would be able to reason with her? Was she seeking revenge for all Brunne had done to her and her family?
Retribution didn’t seem likely. Agatha was not the type of person for it.
That meant she had to be trying to talk an insane woman into sanity.
He wasn’t much of a husband, letting her face this on her own. Hell, he hadn’t meant for her to deal with it at all.
Images of what might be happening made him pick up his step. He heard his boots thudding faster on the boardwalk, the air rushing out of his lungs with the exertion of pushing himself to his limit.
He was brought up short when he saw a young woman running toward him wearing only a shift. She waved her arms, cried out his name.
She thumped into him, grasping him tight about his ribs. She pivoted until she was under the crook of his arm.
“Don’t let him catch me! Your wife promised you wouldn’t let him have me.”
It was the girl from the saloon, the one who was drugged until she was barely conscious.
“Whoa, there. It’s all right.” He held her at arm’s length, feeling bones under thin muscles. The poor girl was far too frail. He couldn’t help but remember when Agatha was the same way. “Who is trying to catch you?”
She pointed up the boardwalk.
The answer to his question jogged toward them, past the bank and the general store, the tip of his cigarette bobbing red in the dark.
“Pete, he says he owns me,” she whispered.
Gently, he placed her behind him.
“I see you’ve caught my runaway.” Pete had to bend, brace hands on knees to catch his breath. “I’ll take her now.”
“I get the impression she doesn’t want to go with you.”
A gust of wind whistled down the middle of the road, twirling up a dust cloud. It ruffled his sleeves and twisted the badge pinned to his shirt.
“What difference does that make?”
“Every difference. She stays with me.”
Lydle dropped his cigarette. The fiery tip rolled away with the wind to be snuffed out in the dust ten yards down.
“I don’t think you understand, Mayor. This girl is my property. I paid her mother good money for her services.”
“Are you admitting to purchasing a human being, Lydle?” That right there was reason to apprehend him. “To kidnapping?”
“Her mother signed her away into my custody, so to speak.”
“She’s under my protection, now.” Impatience to get to Agatha made his nerves jump, twitch under the surface of his skin. But before he could do anything, he had to take care of the young woman she’d sent to him.
“Let’s go.” He turned toward home, keeping his back between her and Pete Lydle’s glare.
The faster he got the young woman into the care of his mother, the sooner he could bring Agatha home and arrest Lydle.
“Expect a visit from my—” Lydle shrugged, slowly closing his hands into fists. “My employees. They’ll come around and collect her directly.”
“Is that a threat, Lydle? Directed at this child?”
He curled his fist, anger beating hot in his brain. He longed to punch the sneer off the saloon owner’s face. But he was the law, not free to lash out in anger.
Another figure strode out of the dark. As the man came closer he recognized Travis Murphy.
This was a bit of good luck. He could send his charge back to the mansion under his protection.
If he was lucky, he’d have Agatha back home and still have a few minutes to figure out what to do about Lydle’s hired thugs.
“Howdy, miss,” Travis said with a curious nod at the mostly undressed girl. He didn’t acknowledge the saloon owner. “I figure my wife must be with yours, William. I hope you know where they are. Clara’s hungry and raising the roof.”
The girl startled them all with a sudden scream. She wagged her finger in the direction of the saloon. “Fire!”
In the instant, all else was forgotten. The four of them dashed for the saloon.
William’s heart slammed against his ribs at the sight of flames scratching the sky.
* * *
Agatha twisted her hand in the twine, pulling and tugging. Thankfully, Hilda Brunne hadn’t noticed that she had only loosely bound it.
Still she would have to reach the knife that Brunne had left on the floor in order to cut her hands free.
“Rotten witch.” Ivy spit out a piece of twine then resumed gnawing the binding on her wrists.
Smoke from the hallway billowed into the room. Agatha couldn’t see the flames yet but she felt the heat and heard its crackle-snap.
She stretched her foot toward the knife but the unconscious bulk of Brunne’s body lay half on top of it. While she stretched, groped with her boot toe, she sent up a prayer for the young man lying in the hallway.
“Too bad she didn’t slip and hit her head somewhere else. I’ve almost got it—I think.”
Drat! Her toe hit the tip and pushed it free of Brunne, but an inch away from her foot. Glancing at the hallway she spotted flames. It could only be seconds before they followed the fuel trail into the room.
“If I can kick the knife toward you will you be able to shove it back closer to me? I might be able to reach it if I can just get my hand...” She groaned and yanked. The bite of yarn dug into her wrist. “It’s out! Quick Ivy!”
Stretching, reaching until she felt her shoulder joint would pop, she brushed her fingers on the floor. The knife slid into her hand as though it had been guided.
Agatha sliced her bonds, then Ivy’s.
Smoke became thicker, swirling around their heads with deadly intent.
Faintly, over the roar of feeding flames she heard screams coming from the casino. The fire must be spreading with deadly speed.
Brunne groaned, thrashed about on the floor. Agatha knelt beside her.
“Hilda! You must wake up!” She patted the flaccid cheek.
“I’ll see to the boy.” Ivy rounded the corner into the hallway.
Hilda Brunne sat up with a start, her eyes bulging.
“We’re going to die!” she pushed to her feet, limped toward the door leading to the casino.
Agatha caught her skirt. “No! You won’t make it that way.”
Banshee-eyed, shrieking, she kicked Agatha’s hand. Grabbing up the can of kerosene, she dashed for the door and flung it open.
Overcome with panic, she must not have seen the wall of flame that she raced toward.
“Stop!” Agatha shouted, even knowing Brunne could not hear her.
Agatha shut the door against the smoke swirling into the room. Clearly, there was only death that way.
With the fire spreading so fast, there might not be a way out of here at all.
Crawling into the hallway, she took hold of a worn brown boot. Fighting a coughing fit, she helped Ivy pull the boy out of the hallway.
It might not matter that they dragged him back into the bedroom. Fire was everywhere.
* * *
The entire block looked red with reflected flames pulsing on walls and windows.
By the time William reached the saloon, more than half of it was engulfed. The heat was fierce enough to make his shirt smell like it was being ironed.
Folks fled the building, crying, tripping down the stairs while dropping money and chips on the road.
Over the sounds of panic and Pete Lydle’s loud cursing, he heard the church bell clanging.
Within moments townsfolk rushed toward the scene in their nightclothes, carrying buckets and shovels.
William’s gaze skipped from person to person, searching for the one wearing a frilly blue dress.
“Go around back!” The girl tugged on his sleeve. “Your wife was in a rear room last I saw her.”
On a run, elbow to elbow with Travis, he dashed around the back.
The girl didn’t follow, but remained across the street with a group of stunned onlookers.
Timber from the roof exploded in a spray of sparks then crashed to the rooms below.
Beside him a window exploded outward. A piece of glass cut his shirt. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a cut on Travis’s cheek.
The hallway along the back rooms was not yet engulfed. Not that it mattered a great deal since halfway down the path was blocked by a wall of fire. It curled up the walls and lapped the ceiling.
“I see something!” Travis covered his nose and mouth with his arm, coughing violently. “Our wives!”
William saw them, too. They looked wavy, as though he was viewing them through a sheet of undulating orange water.
From what he could tell, they had removed their gowns, were using them to beat back the flames. They were on their knees, dragging something—no—dragging someone along with them.
He could not recall ever seeing a situation so hopeless. Yes, they did manage to snuff out fire. But for every inch they gained, the ceiling rained cinders.
How many feet of fiery floor would he have to cross to get to Agatha? Five? Ten? Fifteen? It was impossible to tell with waves of heat distorting reality.
From the looks of it she would watch him incinerate before he reached her.
“Everyone! Form a line!” His mother was suddenly beside him. “Pass the buckets! Here’s one for you, son.”
The bucket did not contain water, but dirt. He dashed it at the blaze. Six inches of flame smothered beneath the grit.
Beside him Travis dumped another pail. Looking back to get the next one, William spotted the Normans, Bert Warble, Uncle Patrick, Antie, Aimee Peller, Preacher Wilson and a line of people from town passing buckets forward, hand over hand. Even Mrs. Peabody was there to urge them along.
Within a minute they had crushed two feet of flame. The trouble was, the roof was beginning to break apart.
“Everyone get out!” he called. The risk was much too great for them to remain.
Buckets kept coming.
Looking up, he saw his wife clearly. Her hair hung about her shoulders, her face was smudged with smoke and sweat. On her knees she beat at the fire with what was left of her gown. In rhythm, she and Ivy slapped, slapped, slapped again, then pulled a man after them by his boots.
Overhead, boards creaked. Under his feet the floor quivered, just a slight tremble coming up through his boots.
“Get out, now!” This time it was Travis who shouted the order.
Glancing back, he saw his mother pushing the rescuers down the smoking hallway.
The building wa
s coming down with only a few impossible feet between him and Agatha.
She must have heard the structure falling as well, for she stopped batting the flames, reached for her sister’s hand then looked at him through the flames.
Touching her lips with a kiss, she turned her fingers toward him.
“Come, William,” his mother’s voice caught, sobbed on his name. She yanked his sleeve hard.
He kissed her cheek, then dove headfirst through a foot-wide thicket of fire. He heard a thump, looked up to see Travis on the floor beside him.
“What the hell, Travis? You’ve got a child to raise.”
“Yeah, she’s hungry and needs her mother.”
The last barrier of flame between them and their wives was four feet high. Travis leapt. William followed. Heat seared his chest, belly and legs.
He rolled to a stop against Agatha’s knees. She patted the cuff of his pants where a flame had caught.
With no time to talk he picked her up, intending to dash across hell to get her out.
“No!” She wriggled down. “Carry him.”
He’d argue about it if there was time. If there was no time, he didn’t want his last words with her to be harsh.
“I love you,” he said instead.
He and Travis supported the man between them. Ivy and Agatha slapped at the fire ahead.
They needed a miracle.
The building groaned. A portion of the second floor fell in a whoosh, landing with a noise like thunder between them and the exit.
Incredibly, a bed fell down with the floor. The mattress formed a bridge across the flames.
Agatha and Ivy ran ahead, clutching hands. He and Travis bore the unconscious boy between them.
Sounds of hades chased them: ceilings crashed, and the inferno screamed in a voice that sounded nearly human.
Within seconds they were free of the building, not the danger. A flying board hit him in the shoulder. He heard Travis yelp, but not lose stride.
He gave himself a focus point, Agatha sprinting away. No matter the distraction, he did not allow his attention to settle on anything else.
Cooler air hit his face. The boy groaned but did not wake up. A couple of men wearing nightshirts rushed over to take him.
Glancing quickly about, he spotted Agatha, bloomers singed and camisole black with ash, leaning against a hitching post to catch her breath.
