There was a fourth body in Patricia’s train car with us.
Breathing too harshly to scream I grappled to free Patricia from a brutal grasp. In the darkness the attacker was nothing more than a lumping body – no face, no identity, only an object I understood I must destroy. I heard grunting. My hands slid ineffectually over a man’s taut arms and shoulders. It was like trying to cut in on two people locked in a dancing embrace. Patricia struggled furiously, her breath emerging in choking bursts. Then I felt hair, not hers. I clenched my fingers and pulled that hair by the roots, using every ounce of strength I possessed.
He issued a small yelp, releasing Patricia to punch me before I could consider this consequence, let alone attempt to avoid it. I could not make sense of Patricia falling to her knees when it was the side of my face with which his hard fist connected. I heard her scrabbling around on the floor, gasping and frantic. Stars flared across my vision and I reeled sideways, crashing into the wingchair.
“Ruth…ann,” Patricia gasped out.
“You fucking whore,” he growled. I found room in my panicking brain to wonder if he meant me or Patricia. He swung again, grunting with the effort, and his fist met flesh with a crunching thunk – but not mine. Someone fell hard. Someone else emitted a sudden shrill scream. Nothing made sense – we existed in a dark world of pure, stark confusion. I could not place the sounds I was hearing into any sort of context.
“Help,” Patricia moaned.
The man lunged, knocking over a side table. There was the shattering tinkle of breaking glass. I fell over Patricia in my attempt to pull her away from him.
“Get him!” Patricia’s gasping voice was in my ear.
He kicked at us with booted feet. My eyes had adjusted enough to observe that he was lying on the floor, belly-crawling toward the door, wheezing.
Shards of broken glass littered the floor.
Moonlight flooded the train car in a pie-shaped wedge as he managed to open the door. He found his feet but then tumbled down the metal steps. I heard moaning and cursing, and then the sounds of a horse.
He was getting away but there was nothing we could do.
“Oh dear God, oh Ruthann, are you harmed?” Patricia’s voice was high-pitched and keen-edged with panic. Something fell from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.
“What…the…hell…what the…fuck…” I could hardly speak past the ball of screaming adrenaline in my chest.
We clung together, shaking.
“Are you hurt? Patricia, oh Jesus fucking Christ, are you hurt?” I demanded, “Tell me!”
“I don’t th…I don’t think so…”
“Light,” I managed to say.
Patricia stammered, “There’s a lot of…blood…oh d…dear, a lot of…blood…”
Panic lent me strength; I hauled Patricia to her feet and out into the night, which was ridiculously quiet, as though it could not care less for what we’d just survived. The man who’d been in the train car with us was nowhere in sight; no unfamiliar horse, no sign of the insanity which had just occurred. In the light spilled by the moon I held Patricia’s shoulders and tried to determine where she was bleeding; frantic terror hazed my vision.
“Your hands,” I whispered. Her hands and arms appeared black with blood, up to the elbows. Then I saw dark patches covering her skirt and started to cry, hard.
“No, it’s not…it’s not…” She struggled to gain enough control to force out the words. “It’s not mine. I st…stabbed him. I stabbed his…st…stomach.” Her teeth were chattering.
“You…” I choked back my sobs. “It’s not your…”
“At least…I th…think…I did…”
“You stabbed him.”
“Oh, R…Ruth…ann…”
“That woman said they were coming for you.” Anger erupted in my chest, serving to burn away some of the fear. “Who did she mean?”
“Oh dear God…” Patricia clambered up the metal steps, caught her hem on her shoe, fell, and then struggled back to her feet, all while I knelt on the ground, watching in stun.
Inside her train car she accomplished what she’d been trying to do in the first place, which was light a candle. I’d followed her by then and saw what caused her to sink to her knees, her blood-drenched skirt fanning across the floor. The interior was a wreck, evidence of the brutal battle we’d just fought for our lives. Broken glass, wet blood, and the wicked-looking, long-bladed knife surely intended for use in taking Patricia’s life this very night…and among all of this, Mrs. Mason lay crumpled.
Chapter Eleven
WE WERE UNABLE TO SORT OUT EXACTLY WHAT HAD JUST happened, and were too horrified to attempt. Patricia could not stop weeping even after I led her back outside, scarcely able to remain calm enough to decide what we should do next. I knew two things. The first, that Mrs. Mason was dead; and the second, I wanted Miles Rawley. I ached from the inside out with wanting him here, right now. He would know what to do.
“She said someone made certain.” Patricia clenched my blouse as we stood in the chill night air, clinging to each other. “Oh, dear God. There are only two people to whom she could be referring. Thomas or Fallon.”
“Your husband’s family?” I clarified. My voice was dust-dry.
Patricia nodded with two jerks of her head. I could not begin to guess the implications of all of this, not right now, and squeezed her closer to my thumping heart.
I knew Miles would return with the morning’s light but dawn was hours away. I was literally floundering with indecision, turning to look back at the train car, where the single lighted candle transformed the lone window into a small rectangle of gold, and where a dead woman lay on the floor. Patricia jittered, head to hem, in my arms. I tried to gather my thoughts enough to determine what we should do in the next few minutes, but they scattered like someone shaking pepper into a soup pot.
That man meant to kill Patricia. He had a knife. He was waiting for her.
He would have killed her if you hadn’t been there.
Oh, Jesus…
Should we walk to town?
No, there’s no help there.
But Doc Turn is there.
Doc’s drunk by this time of night. He’s worse than no help at all.
Where is the man who did this?
What if he’s out there, waiting for us?
No. Don’t freak out, not now…
My mind swam to the only security it understood.
I cupped Patricia’s shoulders to gain her full attention; her breathing had not slowed. “It’s all right. Listen to me. Right now we have to walk a little ways. Are you able?”
She nodded slowly, seeming to understand my intent.
I helped her sit on the bottom-most step and then ventured inside the train car one last time, stomach lurching; I would not have entered the space again except that we couldn’t leave Mrs. Mason exposed on the floor. I grabbed a silk throw blanket, draped over the back of a nearby loveseat, and settled it atop the woman’s motionless form. I’d been the one to feel for the pulse that wasn’t there, in either wrist or neck. Next I flew to Patricia’s sleeping compartment and snatched the first garment I found. Back outside, nervous energy pulsing, I helped Patricia from her blood-stained clothing, which was already growing stiff in the chilly night air, and buttoned her into a clean dress, shoving the soiled one beneath the metal steps.
“Come on,” I whispered, grasping her right elbow. “I’ll be right beside you.”
We walked swiftly away, holding fast to one another and our hems, lifting them so we could effectively move forward through the tall prairie grass.
“Am I to believe Dredd’s family intended to have me killed?” She sounded like a bewildered child.
“I don’t know. But things are changing, tonight.” I recognized this truth, deep inside.
Under the open sky and away from the train cars, I felt better. Not as numb. Perhaps it was simple self-preservation at work, my brain grasping the realization that I
wouldn’t be able to accomplish what needing doing if I was disabled by fear. I kept a firm hold on Patricia as we navigated the uneven ground, stumbling along through scratchy grasses that tugged at our clothing. Twenty minutes passed, maybe more; I’d lost track of time when Patricia suddenly whispered, “I hear music.”
I heard it then too, stretching across the distance to touch us, the sweet, mournful notes of two fiddles being played in harmony. I almost crumpled with relief. “Come on! We’re almost there.”
Within another fifty yards we spied the fire’s orange flames. They’d finished the song. In the silence following the absence of music, the murmur of their low-pitched voices drifted to our ears, more reassuring than anything I’d ever heard.
“Miles.” His name flew from my throat. “Miles!”
Their conversation stopped mid-word.
“Ruthann?” The question in his tone grew intense with concern as he shouted, “Ruthann! Where are you?”
Tears flooded my face even though I wasn’t actually crying. These were tears of pure, undiluted relief. I had to stop walking so I could inhale enough breath to shout, “Out here!”
And then he was there, Cole on his heels, but I saw only Miles, who ran to me without question because I needed him.
“What has happened?” Miles gripped my shoulders.
“I…we…that is…” I babbled, unable to string together a sentence or take my eyes from his face.
Cole moved with purpose and swept Patricia into his arms, heading for the cabin. With authority, he ordered, “C’mon.”
Miles looked as though he was thinking of doing the same to me but I took his elbow instead, not willing to be carried.
“What has happened?” he repeated as we followed Cole and Patricia. He implored, “Ruthann, please tell me what has happened.”
“Someone…there was someone…oh God…” I gulped, embarrassed to be losing my cool but losing it all the same. Now that we were here and therefore safe, I could feel the shakes coming on with a vengeance.
“Was it Turnbull?” Miles stopped our forward progress to look upon my face. His eyes blazed with murderous fury. “I will fucking tear him apart –”
“No,” I whispered. “No. At least, I don’t think it was…”
“Who was it? What has been done?”
“Will you listen?” I tried to focus, clenching my muscles so they wouldn’t tremble so hard. “Someone tried to kill Patricia. Just now, in her train car. Oh God, it was…we were…” Even though I’d just ordered him to listen, I wasn’t in enough control to explain. My lips and teeth seemed frozen.
Without a word, Miles tucked me back against his side. My nose was near his collarbones; I caught the faint scent of bourbon on his breath. I clung to the strength of him, allowing myself this indulgence. Branch, bearing a tin lantern, hurried outside at our approach, Axton behind him.
Ax took one look at Patricia, curled in Cole’s arms, and his face went stark with agony. “What’s happened?”
Cole had no time for questions. “Fetch a basin of water, hurry now,” he ordered, and disappeared inside with Patricia.
Axton floundered, plainly wanting to follow them; he caught sight of me, took immediate stock, and flew to my side. “Ruthie!”
Miles grasped my chin with utmost care, able to see my face in the lantern’s shifting light. “You’ve been struck. Who did this to you?”
“Darlin’, what in God’s name?” Branch rooted his handkerchief from his hip pocket and passed it to my hands; I lifted the cloth to the sore spot on my temple, where a goose egg was already forming.
I forced my lungs to expand. “There was a man hiding in Patricia’s train car. He meant to kill her.”
Ax issued a low sound of rage and Branch urged, “Boy, you go and pump a bucket of water, quick now, like Cole done asked. Ruthie, c’mon inside.” So saying, he hurried to open the door; within, Cole sat on one of the two mismatched chairs, holding Patricia on his lap, cradling her, smoothing a hand over the back of her hair, which hung in drooping tangles from the knots she had pinned up earlier this afternoon.
Cole looked up as we entered, his eyes laden with concern and rage held rigidly in check. In the glow of the lantern the bloodstains on Patricia’s hands and arms appeared more gruesome than ever. Cole pressed his lips to her temple and murmured, “It’s all right. It’s all right now.” As he spoke he worked with care, slipping the pins from her topknots one by one, setting them on the table, stroking through her loosening hair with absolute tenderness.
Axton reappeared toting a bucket of water, which he set on the floor; his jaws clenched at the sight of Patricia clinging to Cole. But his worried gaze roved my way and he hurried to gather me in a hug. His nose against my hair, he whispered, “We shouldn’t have left you alone. I’m so sorry, Ruthie.”
I pressed my face to Ax’s chest, unable to administer comfort, only absorb it; at last I drew back and whispered, “It’s not your fault.”
Miles, not about to be deterred, led me to the other chair, settling me there and then kneeling, bracing his hands on either side of my thighs, gripping the outer edges of the chair. “Tell us what happened.”
I spoke haltingly, relating what I thought had occurred in the past hour, while the men listened in stunned silence. Patricia, looking younger than ever with her long hair tumbling down her back, kept her head on Cole’s shoulder. Her eyes were so red and swollen she appeared to have received a beating. When I paused for a breath she whispered, “I owe you my life, dear Ruthann. I have no doubt. You knocked the knife from his hand.” Her voice jerked over the words. “He yanked my head back. He meant…to slit my throat…”
Cole’s face was stone as the impact of these words settled. Axton, who’d claimed the chair to my right, wore such a similar expression that for a second I could hardly tell the two men apart; the feeling was strong, almost surreal. A wave of dizzy nausea crashed over my body.
“I must go and determine what has happened.” Miles spoke calmly but I imagined I could see the frenzied whirl of his thoughts, attempting to sort out the details. He clarified, “The man who attacked you and Mrs. Yancy ran away? And you believe he was wounded?”
I nodded, exhausted beyond words. I didn’t want him to leave but knew I had no power to stop it.
Miles rose. “Let us go.”
Axton spoke adamantly. “I’ll ride with you.”
Cole tucked a loose strand of hair behind Patricia’s ear, his fingertips lingering on her cheek. He promised, “I’ll return as soon as I am able.”
Miles grabbed his hat from the hook by the door; his act of settling it over his head seemed too final, setting off a tripwire in my heart. He went outside and I jumped up and ran after him.
“Miles,” I implored, and his feet stalled. It always seemed he faced away from the light, that shadows cast themselves over his stern, handsome face. I grabbed his arm with a two-handed grip. “Be careful. I’m worried. I’m so worried about you.”
“I worry so for you, as well.” He bracketed my face with both hands. My heart compressed and released, in swift repetition; I was mired in confusion as thick as mud.
“I don’t understand this.”
“It does not require understanding,” he whispered. The embers of the evening’s fire, just beyond us, seemed to burn my eyes. Miles rested his thumbs upon my mouth, as though imprinting it with his touch. He spoke with quiet intensity. “I will return for you, Ruthann, this I promise. I would that you rest while I am gone,” and then, cradling my face, he leaned and gently kissed the lumping bruise on my temple.
I lay beside Patricia on the bear hide where Branch normally slept, the two of us covered with quilts in the far corner of the dimly-lit room. More than an hour had passed since Miles, Cole, and Axton turned their horses for Howardsville. Branch sat sentry at the fire, too restless to attempt sleeping, a long-barreled rifle braced lengthwise across his lap.
Patricia whispered, “Are you asleep?”
�
��No,” I admitted. I lay closest to the wooden wall, one arm curved beneath my head, my other hand resting on Patricia’s back; she felt so slim and delicate beneath my touch. I admonished softly, “But you should be. Don’t worry, Branch is right outside and I’ll be right here. I won’t leave your side.”
“Thank you,” she breathed, and I patted her back, making small circles with the base of my palm.
“You remind me of Rosemary,” she murmured a few seconds later. “Who’s that?” My hand fell still.
“Rosemary,” she sighed. “My little sister. She died many years ago, when I was only a child, but I remember her as if it were yesterday.”
Only minutes later she fell asleep, her breathing slowing and evening out; I kept rubbing her back, aching for her, and for what would happen now. At last I let my eyes drift shut, half-dreaming, words rolling through my mind, tugging at my consciousness.
I must have lost my ring…
My husband…
I know he’s out there somewhere looking for me.
Sweetheart, can you hear me?
Oh God, where are you?
Where are you?
I jerked awake, rubbing my thumb over the bare space at the base of the third finger of my left hand. I pressed harder, using my thumbnail, creating a divot in my skin. I screamed the question across endless miles – Where are you?
But of course there was no answer.
I thought of what this night had revealed – the likely conclusion seemed the Yancys wished Patricia dead, their plans now thwarted. The Yancys, criminals to their core; surely the horror of this evening’s events proved it unequivocally. But why? What did this mean?
What does any of this mean?
I pressed both fists to my eyes and, with determination, centered my thoughts on Miles Rawley, riding back to me.
Chapter Twelve
Jalesville, MT - February, 2014
“I DREAMED ABOUT THEM AGAIN,” I WHISPERED TO CASE in the early-morning darkness of our little bedroom.
His chest was broad and warm, so wonderful a place for my cheek to be cradled. I lay with both right arm and leg latched over my husband and he stroked my back with his chording hand, his fingertips gentle as they glided up and down my spine; from time to time, he made a fist and knuckled my lower back.
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