The girl skittered to a halt before a closed door on the right side of the hallway and from behind it Sawyer demanded, “Edward?”
“Sawyer!” I hollered and just that fast, the door was thrown wide.
My oldest friend scarce had time to holster his piece before I clutched him in an embrace fit to smother his breath. Past his shoulder I beheld Lorie upon a rumpled bed, holding a tiny babe to her breast. Her lips dropped open and she began weeping at the sight of me, reaching with her free hand – and then, like a long-lost fledgling to its dear mama, Malcolm streaked past Sawyer and me and dove for Lorie. He fell to his knees, burying his face against her side and holding for all he was worth as she curled over him and kissed his cheek, his ear, his forehead, issuing choking sobs.
“Malcolm,” she wept. “My boy, my sweet boy.”
“Boyd, you’re alive! Jesus Christ, we all but gave up hope!” Sawyer drew away, smucked with stun at the sight of me before him. “What…how…”
“Where is she?” I begged, interrupting him, clutching his shoulders. “I swear I’ll explain everything, but first tell me where Rebecca is.”
“But where have you –”
“Sawyer! Where is Rebecca?”
Behind us, in the hallway, a man demanded, “Davis! Do you know this fellow? Scared my wife half to death!”
Lorie implored, “Boyd, come here, please come here,” and I reached the bedside in two long strides, there gently clasping the back of her head and pressing a kiss to her forehead, leaning over Malcolm’s huddled form to do so. Lorie smelled like sweetness itself and I inhaled of her, struck anew with love for this woman I considered a sister, who’d given Sawyer a reason to live. Tears glistened on her face as she stared up at me.
“Lorie-girl,” I whispered, and stroked a fingertip over the baby’s silken cheek. “Who you got here?”
“Oh, Boyd,” she said again, using one shoulder to nudge aside flowing tears; both her hands were pinned beneath Malcolm and the child. “Becky will be exultant! She and Tilson are across the way, at The Dolly Belle. They promised to return before Rose was born but they have not, and I am so worried.”
“The Belle?” I repeated, confused. “But why…”
Sawyer was there, cupping Malcolm’s head as he explained, “A woman named Mary, there employed, wanted a word with Becky.” He studied me and understood, “You know this woman Mary.”
“I do,” I confirmed, tight in the chest, my mind galloping like a cavalry charge. I thought, Virgil. Fast, not to be contradicted, I said, “I’ll return directly. Malcolm, stay here with Sawyer an’ Lorie. Don’t leave this room, you hear?”
Sawyer’s one-sided gaze drove into mine, the two of us exchanging messages in the way of longtime friends; he was not wearing his eyepatch and the healed wound appeared rigid with scarring. Before he could speak, I said, “No. I thank you, I know you would, but no. You stay here with them. Malcolm can tell you where we been.” I heaved a breath, overcome, gripping Sawyer’s upper arm, seeking reassurance in his familiarity. “I aim to hold that baby when I return.”
And then I ran, down the stairs and out into the dark night, across the street and through the swinging doors of The Dolly Belle, garish red lanterns swaying in the slight breeze. It was a despicable place I’d hoped never again in my life to enter, but Lorie had said Rebecca was here. I threw my gaze about the bustling, noisy space. Blood beat at the interior of my skull; Rebecca was not in sight, nor was Tilson. Though I didn’t believe Virgil, Fallon, Church Talk, or even Hoyt Little would be careless, or fool, enough to slay Royal Lawson and then blithely enter a saloon for a drink, I looked for them. My eyes darted with desperate movements, pinwheeling in their sockets in the glow of the many-colored lights thrown by the mullioned glass in Jean Luc’s lanterns.
I saw the proprietor himself, seated at a table near the painting of the nude woman; though he was angled away from my position I recognized the ostentatious Frenchman with his blue scarf and earbobs, as though no time had passed since last autumn. The men seated at his table all fell silent as I strode their way, wary but not yet fearful. Jean Luc did not rise to greet me, only leaned back in his chair like a show-off youngster daring his daddy to reprimand. If he seemed surprised to see me alive and well, he displayed none of that.
“I am seeking a woman named Rebecca Krage,” I said, glowering into his objectionable face with its oiled mustaches and greasy grin. If he knew where she was and would not tell me, I would not be responsible for what I did to him next.
“If it is not Monsieur Carter, returned from the dead!” Jean Luc pronounced in the grand fashion I remembered. “Mayhap Monsieur should seek a bath before all else, non?”
I hauled him from the chair, toppling it to the floor, grabbing him by the shirtfront and bringing his simpering face close to mine. “Tell me where she is.”
“There is no woman by that name in my employ!” he yelped, affronted.
Through clenched teeth I demanded, “Has Virgil Turnbull been here this night?”
Jean Luc shoved at my hold and I let him free, setting him roughly upon his feet. He dusted at his garments, cursing in both English and French, but at least I’d wiped that simper from his expression. He declared, “I will have the law on you, Carter, see if I will not!”
“The law?” I rasped, driving a hard finger into his chest. “There is a dead man just across the fucking street from your establishment.” I drew out the final word into four or so parts, mocking him. “You go right ahead an’ get the law in here! Where is Turnbull? Where is Mary? I need a word with her!”
“Monsieur Carter!” The voice approaching from the left was not unfamiliar, though far more sincere than the last time I’d heard it. I turned to see the woman named Cecilia headed our direction, her eyes fixed on me with unmistakable alarm. Without preamble, ignoring Jean Luc’s sputtering, she said, “The man you seek was seeking you, just yesterday.”
“Virgil was here?” I demanded, and Cecilia nodded at once. Afraid she would hustle from sight and I’d get no more straight answers, I grabbed her arm. “I’m looking for a woman named Rebecca. I was told she was here. Has she been here tonight?”
“Non, I have not seen any such woman, but…” Cecilia’s nasal voice trailed to a halt and I watched the way her eyes roved to the stairs leading to the second floor, a telltale sign if there was any. I didn’t wait to hear what else she might say, clearing the saloon floor before I knew I’d moved, taking the stairs two at a time.
“Rebecca!” I hollered, pounding upon the first door I saw; there were four down a long hallway, two on either side and all closed. At the far end was a second staircase, narrow and enclosed, which allowed passage to the rear of the building. “Rebecca!”
The piano music from the ground floor seemed too loud, fit to bust apart my sanity. Cecilia, red-faced and short of breath, had followed me up the steps, clutching her skirts. High-pitched with fright, she called, “Isobel! It is Ceci!” She swept past me, to the second door on the left, and rattled the knob. “It is locked!”
I set her to the side and drove a shoulder into the wood. It sprang open and struck the opposite wall with a bang.
“Get in here and shut that door!” Virgil hissed.
He was positioned in the corner farthest from the entrance and I could do nothing but obey, Cecilia on my heels. The door closed with a click, muffling the sounds from the floor below, and the edges of the room receded like I remembered things receding in the hot, dark heart of battle, time slowing to a crawl in that lull before it charged, full-force, and propelled me to action.
“You will let her go,” I ordered, low and calm, even as I envisioned placing a bullet between Virgil’s eyes. But I did not dare to reach for my pistol, not yet. “You will let her go now.”
Virgil’s eyes were feral, a rat in a trap. He had the small woman named Isobel on her knees before him, her spine to his front, the side of his wrist stump shoved between her lips in place of a gag. His remaining hand h
eld a pistol to her head and she dared not move. A man lay sprawled on the floorboards near the edge of the room and I risked a glance at him, only to see that it was Edward Tilson; the dread in my center doubled, swelling like slippery elm in a hard rain.
At my side, Cecilia seethed, “Virgil Turnbull, you beast! You coward!”
I risked a step forward; the floorboards creaked and I held my ground.
“Stay back,” Virgil whispered. He was gaunt and clean-shaven, nearly unrecognizable. His pistol hand shook and I fought the urge to lunge at him.
“Let the woman go.”
“Stay put!” Virgil redirected the barrel at Cecilia. My muscles ached with violence held in check as Virgil spat at her, “You will not leave this room, whore. I will kill the lot of you, see if I won’t.” He was close to losing control; I could hear it in his voice. It was a sound I knew from my soldiering days, the sound of a recruit about to start shooting to kill, no matter who was in the path of the rounds.
“Let her go. You can leave this place, I won’t stop you,” I said.
Isobel’s wide, fearful eyes were fixed on my face; she did not attempt to speak, nor did she struggle against his hold.
“Carter,” Virgil sneered, as though we’d only just parted ways on the trail, as though the horror of that night was only hours past. With no little curiosity, he wondered, “How’d you get out of it?”
“Cora saved us.” I eased another step closer, taking a small amount of pleasure in delivering this news to him. “Cora found Quill’s knife. She sawed through the bindings.”
Virgil’s eyes glittered as bayonet points catching the sun. I knew I must keep him level, stall him; my thoughts fled in all directions, as a herd of deer scattered by a bounding catamount, determining what choices were available, what course of action I could take. Above all else, one thought sliced repeatedly across my mind, screaming for attention – Where was Rebecca?
“You can ride away from this place, Virgil, I give you my word. Just let her go.”
“I let her go, you kill me. I’m no fool.”
“You are a fool, and a coward!” Cecilia pronounced again, just beyond my shoulder. “Isobel has done nothing to you, you small, one-handed bastard! You pitiful excuse for a man!”
“You will shut your whore mouth,” Virgil ordered in no uncertain terms. His upper lip curled as he regarded Cecilia as one would an ant crawling along a window ledge, a nuisance easily crushed from existence with a single thumb.
There was a sudden shout from the floor below, the sound of alarm rather than merriment; I thought I heard Malcolm hollering for me just as Virgil wheezed an anxious breath, his attention redirected, but it was enough –
I charged, grabbing his pistol in both hands, using our momentum to take him to the floor. Isobel was thrown aside but I could pay her no mind, concentrating all effort on disabling Virgil. He fought savagely against my hold, desperation affording him strength. Our legs scrabbled, boots scraping the wooden floor planks. He bit my wrist, sinking his teeth. I yelped and slammed my forehead into his nose. His head lolled as the blow dazed him and I yanked the pistol from his grip, overcompensating and sending it skittering across the floorboards.
“You…son of a bitch,” Virgil groaned. I pinned him at the collar and chest, one forearm over each. Blood ran down my left hand and onto his shirt.
“Where’s Rebecca?” I growled, holding him flat. I failed to notice Isobel. I would have stopped her, Virgil had information I needed, but she was small and slight, rabid with intent. The pistol intruded into my line of sight a moment too late. She’d fetched it from the floor and shot him pointblank, the bullet’s report crashing through the room, stripping my ears of all sound but that of ringing. I reeled away, Virgil’s blood hot on my face. Cecilia sank to the floor screaming, open-mouthed.
Isobel sat back on her heels, the barrel now trained downward. She blinked rapidly, staring at Virgil’s limp form as though bewildered by what she’d done. I floundered to my knees, only a pace or two away from her, but I did not fear the pistol in Isobel’s hands and scrambled over the floor to Tilson’s side. As I did so a man burst into the room, his mouth flapping; I heard nothing except the roaring in my head. I bent over Rebecca’s uncle, rolling him to his back, seeking the pulse at the base of his throat, finding it. He’d been struck at the back of the head but he was alive.
“Tilson!” I cried, shaking his arm, heartened to hear him groan. His eyes opened a crack. “Tilson! Where’s Rebecca?”
“On your feet!” A repeating rifle was trained upon me and I was forced to obey, rising, stepping away so Tilson was not in the line of fire. The man holding the repeater was dressed to ride hard, a deputy badge pinned to his leathers. Gesturing at Virgil, he demanded, “What in the goddamn hell happened here? Who killed that man?”
“I did,” Isobel said.
“Drop that piece, go on now!” The deputy barked and Isobel complied, with no hesitation. Cecilia huddled near the door, clutching her head in both hands.
“Isobel,” I said sharply. “Where is Rebecca? Was she here this night?”
“There’s a dead woman out back of the building,” the deputy said before Isobel could respond and I ran from the room, pounding down the back staircase and through a screen door, out into the night. I saw Malcolm first thing – he’d disobeyed my orders, it had been him calling for me from the main floor – along with Jean Luc and another deputy, both of them holding lanterns aloft. Near senseless with dread, the scene before my eyes swayed and blurred. A woman, the deputy had said, a dead woman –
I saw then, and clenched my teeth, sickened at the sight even as a deep and primal relief entered into me; the dead woman was not Rebecca. The tall, lean girl Grady had favored lay on the porch at Jean Luc’s feet, for all the world as though she was but sleeping, pale garments stained with blood. Malcolm knelt at Mary’s side while Jean Luc and the deputy argued heatedly, gesturing so that the lantern light wobbled all about. Isobel was on my heels. She screamed, “Mary!” and fell to all fours, weeping in high, heaving bursts. Malcolm looked from Mary to me and back again, his brows flattened with horror.
I crouched beside Isobel and clamped hold of her elbow, disregarding everything, even Malcolm’s distress. “Where is Rebecca Krage? Tell me.”
Isobel’s eyes were red-rimmed and distraught, reflecting the quivering flames. She did not reply and I restrained the urge to shake answers from her.
“I beg of you, Isobel, please tell me what you know.”
She blinked and at last spoke, almost too quietly for me to hear. “They are camped north of here, two miles, along the east side of the river. I do not know if your woman is with them, but it is likely. She was here earlier, to speak to Mary.”
I was already on my feet.
NIGHTFALL HAD SETTLED, dark and weighty. Malcolm ran for Aces before I could stop him, cantering after me even as I heeled Admiral into a full-out gallop, following the east bank of the river, riding with my pistol at the ready. The big Henry hung in its saddle scabbard on Admiral’s left flank and I handed it over to Malcolm as we rode; an understanding was likewise exchanged in the gesture. He was determined to help me and I could not lose time stopping him; I recognized that allowing him to ride with me when I intended to kill amounted to accepting him as an equal, from this night forth no longer man to boy but man to man. Riding to my right, bent low over Aces and clutching the Henry, I knew Malcolm understood this, too.
My brother. I’ve known few braver than you. I am goddamn proud to ride with you.
My focus narrowed as it had when fighting Yanks, as it had when I’d first been aware of Fallon the evening we crossed the border into Minnesota, when we ate at Kristian Hagebak’s fire. If only I’d killed Fallon that very night, if only I’d given chase and taken him out. If only I’d done so many goddamn things. I trusted that Isobel had told me true – that Fallon was encamped somewhere ahead, with Church Talk or Hoyt Little, or both, in his company. I must figure both, which
meant at least three armed men. Four, if Bill Little had joined up with the bunch. I would find them. They had killed people I cared greatly for and I would kill them, no question now. I could not allow myself to imagine beyond that.
“C’mon, boy,” I urged Admiral, Gus’s warhorse, leaning farther forward and tightening my knees to urge him faster; Malcolm responded and Aces kept steady pace. Together Malcolm and me, and our mounts, rode hard through a strange, dreamlike lull, a temporary peace which existed before unrestrained violence – and violence was coming, I could sense it to the pit of my soul. I kept my gaze fixed upon the darkness ahead. In my mind I saw the way Rebecca appeared when I’d looked back at her as I rode away from her homestead. I saw Malcolm’s face as he bid me farewell on the Territory prairie. I saw the tears in my mama’s eyes as she kissed me one last time before Beau, Grafton, and I left Tennessee to join the War. I saw my daddy playing his fiddle, sending notes out over the holler of my youth and into time eternal. I understood that what happened this night would shape the rest of my life beyond.
There would be no fire to give away their presence, I knew, and kept a sharp eye trained for the sight of horses, the pale blur of animal hide. We’d cleared roughly a mile and a half and I drew on Admiral’s reins, bringing him to a trot, listening hard, hearing nothing but the river. Malcolm slowed Aces and kept near; I leaned closer and muttered, “Keep quiet, we’ll go slow from here,” and he nodded assent, holding the Henry by its receiver, barrel pointed heavenward.
I didn’t dare risk shouting for Rebecca. The only advantage we possessed was surprise.
“Ought we to dismount an’ walk?” Malcolm whispered.
“No. We might need to ride hard. When we find them don’t fire unless I say. Rebecca could be there.”
We crept forward, straining to peer through the darkness and hear over the river. I cursed the lack of trees, struggling hard to stay calm. Pictures of what might have occurred thundered through my skull in increasing intervals.
Grace of a Hawk Page 37
