by Jenny Lykins
Before the door closed completely Hunter charged the house. He threw his weight against the door, enjoying the feel of it falling back to hit something large and soft. Before the inhabitants could move Hunter had both pistols drawn and aimed at the heads of Harold Cabot and Hezekiah Pickering. The latter was well known to Hunter. Pickering owned one of the banks in Memphis and was a very prominent citizen.
Hunter quickly scanned the room. A tiny mound under a ragged quilt lay on the floor by an ash-filled fireplace. A lump rose in his throat, then relief swept over him when he saw the rise and fall of Katie's breathing under the quilt.
Nathan stepped through the door after warning Hunter of his entrance. Hunter handed the guns to him.
"Keep them covered. If one moves, kill him."
"Yessuh!" Nathan said with enthusiasm.
Hunter walked over the dirt floor and knelt beside his daughter. He lifted the filthy cover from her then gently scooped her sleeping body into his arms.
"She alright?" Nathan asked as he kept and eye and a gun on the two men.
"She seems to be." He looked up at Cabot, intense hate twisting his gut.
Neither Cabot nor Pickering had uttered a word nor moved a muscle other than to raise their hands. Hunter walked over and stood in front of Pickering. He looked the quaking man up and down. Revulsion at the thought of those lily white hands touching the precious sleeping bundle in his arms roiled in his stomach.
"The only form of life lower than you, Pickering, are the Cabots who procure your victims." Pickering tried to speak, but the words came out as a whimper. Hunter shot his hand out and grabbed the man's throat. "If you say a word I will snap you windpipe. Now," he went on conversationally, "for the rest of your life I will have someone watching you. If you so much as pat a child on the head, I will personally see to it that your...tastes...are made known to everyone. That will be, of course, after I have seen to it that you have been rendered a eunuch. Or perhaps less than a eunuch."
The man's eyes widened with terror. He blubbered incoherently, his legs squeezed together protectively at Hunter's words.
"And by five o'clock today I want...oh..." Hunter searched for a number, "...fifty thousand dollars to be donated to the home for orphaned children. Now, I suggest you remove yourself and your perversion from my sight before I change my mind and perform the surgery now."
Pickering scrambled sideways to the door, anxiously glancing first at Hunter, then at Nathan, who had lowered his aim to correspond with Hunter's threat. As he ran from the shack he pulled the door shut behind him, slamming it with a bang.
Katie jerked awake. She immediately began to cry for her mama and papa and fight her way out of Hunter's arms. Hunter held her gently and tried to calm her.
"Shhh. Shhhh, baby. Papa's here, baby. It's alright. Papa's here."
He nuzzled the silky hair over her ear as he whispered the soothing words. But he stared at Cabot, conveying with his eyes that the bastard would not get off as easily as Pickering.
He dragged his gaze from Cabot, then held Katie so she could see who he was. She continued to cry, her eyes squeezed shut, until he jostled her and called her name.
"Katie. Katiedid. Shhhh. Open your eyes. Papa's here."
When his voice reached through Katie's fear she suddenly stopped struggling and opened her eyes. The next moment she had a death grip around his neck.
"Papa papa papa papa papa!"
Hunter returned his glare to Cabot's pasty white face while he continued to comfort Katie. His heart warmed at the feel of those tiny arms back around his neck, but deep inside his warming heart lay a chunk of ice that refused to melt.
He patted Katie on the back and kissed her silky curls. Finally he pulled her away and looked at her face. Her tear-streaked, chubby cheeks held the dimples of her smile.
"Did this man hurt you, Katie?" he asked quietly.
She twisted in his arms to look at Cabot. The moment she saw him she buried her face in Hunter's shoulder and held him tight.
"He's a mean man." The words came muffled from his shoulder. "Make him go 'way."
"I will. I will." He cupped the back of her head in the palm of his hand and let the rage at her reaction to Cabot build. "But tell Papa. Did he hurt you?" Katie made no comment, squirming deeper into his arms. "He cannot hurt you if you tell me. He will never hurt you again."
Another few seconds passed, then her muffled voice rose. "He hit me right here." Her tiny finger poked her cheek.
He lifted his gaze to Cabot and asked, "Did he hurt you...or touch you...anywhere else?" Cabot frantically shook his head back and forth in denial. Sweat streamed from the bastard's face. Huge wet rings grew on his grimy jacket.
"No." She raised her head, her finger still on her cheek, and glared at the man, now that she was safe in her father's arms. "But he hit me two times right here."
He studied her skin beneath her finger. The rosy glow held a tint of violet smudge.
The bastard!
"Here," he moved her finger, "let Papa kiss the boo-boo." His guts wrenched as he brushed several kisses across her velvety skin. "There now. All better." Hunter flicked a glance at Cabot, then turned back to Katie. "Would you go help Nathan find the horses while I talk to this man? Then we shall go see Mama. She's missed you."
Katie leaned toward Nathan, her arms sliding trustingly around his leathery neck. Thankfully, she didn't seem to avoid the old servant. Perhaps they'd found her before any terrible damage was done.
Nathan transferred the guns to Hunter, then turned to leave.
"Nathan, where is the rifle?" Nathan stepped outside the door and picked up the firearm where it had been propped against the shack. "How far away are the horses?"
Nathan slid his gaze to Cabot and let it linger before asking, "A quarter mile be far 'nough?"
"Better make it a little farther."
Nathan nodded. He and Katie disappeared through the door. Hunter held both guns on Cabot, then backed to the window and cast an occasional glance at the retreating pair. As the distance grew between them he turned to the bastard who had dared kidnap his child.
Up until then Cabot had failed to say a word. His silence broke when Hunter aimed both guns at his head.
"I didn't hurt her, Pierce! You saw for yourself! Just a tap on the cheek to get her attention! I wasn't going to sell her. Just use her to con some money from - "
His speech broke off when Hunter placed the barrel of the pistol in the center of Cabot's forehead.
"Your wife and I had quite a conversation before she told me where to look for you." A flash of rage flared in Cabot's eyes. "Let's see. How many times have you done this before? Sold children like my daughter to perverted scum." Fear replaced the rage, and Cabot nearly fell to his knees in denial.
"That whore hates me! She'd tell you anything to make things worse for me. I never - "
Hunter calmly cocked the gun against Cabot's forehead. The man began to quiver like pudding in an earthquake.
"How many times? You see, I left in such a hurry - "
"She's lying! The youngest I ever sold was ten! And, hell, most of them were niggers! Just a couple of white girls, and they were trash! I wasn't going to sell your daughter!"
Hunter uncocked the gun and walked away from Cabot. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of what those children had suffered and what Katie might have gone through. He laid the pistols on the table that now separated him from Cabot. The man looked at him, a flicker of hope in his eyes. Hunter enjoyed killing that hope with his next words.
"You're a dead man."
New beads of sweat erupted on Cabot's temples and upper lip. He dragged his sleeve across his face as the moisture trickled into his eyes from his receding hairline. A little red circle still marked the skin of his forehead from the barrel of Hunter's pistol.
"Is that a threat?" he sneered, puffing himself up with false bravado. Hunter snorted and shook his head.
"No. That's a death sentence." He paused to
let his words sink in. "Pick up the gun."
Cabot began to tremble again. A dark spot spread across the front of his trousers.
"You can't do this, Pierce! I didn't hurt her! You saw for yourself!"
"Pick up the gun."
Cabot licked his lips and looked at the two pistols on the table top. The bastard was so transparent. Hunter knew exactly what he was planning.
The only sound in the room was that of Cabot's erratic breathing. He flicked a glance at Hunter then lunged for both guns. Hunter shot his left hand out and slammed it on the nearest gun as Cabot tried to grab it. The blackguard backed off, his moment of bravado gone, but his hand still on the other gun. Though Cabot didn't release the weapon, he refused to lift it off the table. Hunter's hand stayed on his gun as well.
"This is the 1870's, Pierce. You can't kill me!"
Hunter ignored the other man's words.
"Did you know that you kicked my mother in the chest, then ran over her with your carriage? She might be dead as we speak, thanks to you. And then you took my four year old daughter to sell to a deviant. Oh, by the way," he quirked an apologetic eyebrow and allowed just a hint of a smile, "your wife never mentioned the others to me."
Cabot's breath wheezed in his throat. His limbs shook so violently the gun rattled against the wood of the table. The bastard who stole little girls looked ready to cry.
"You'll never get away with this, Pierce!"
Hunter's smile faded from his lips.
"Famous last words, Cabot." He stared hard at his adversary, then cocked his head as if a thought just occurred to him. "You know, that is usually just a figure of speech," his smile returned, "but in your case, it's true."
The rattle of metal against wood stopped as Cabot lifted the gun. A hint of a smirk grew in his sweating face. The barrel shook as it rose to point at Hunter. Hunter's left hand never moved as he held his gun on the table. But his right hand shot to the back of his neck. In one movement he slid the knife from its sheath and hurled it through the air.
A dull thud was followed by a muffled "Ooph." Cabot's victorious smirk changed to a wide-eyed look of surprise. His gaze dropped to the bone handle protruding from the left side of his chest, then rose to stare at Hunter with the look of a man who had just seen his own ghost. Even as his eyes glassed over, his body hovered upright for a moment. Then he toppled backward, a cloud of dust rising as his body fell to the floor.
Hunter stared at the dead man, then moved around the table, stepping over the filthy, thin quilt that had covered Katie. He reached down and yanked the knife from Cabot's chest, wiped it across the already bloody shirtfront, then slid it back into its sheath. He pulled the gun from Cabot's hand, picked the other one off the table and, without a backward glance, walked through the door of the shack.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The familiar cacophony of barking dog and yowling cat brought Marin out of a fitful sleep. Those stupid animals hadn't made a noise in days, and now they wait until she'd finally fallen asleep to -
She sat straight up, then flew from the bed, leaving the bed linens to flutter to the floor. As she ran down the hall in the early morning light she heard the skittering of Puffy's toenails on the parquet floor as he slid into the front door.
And then she heard that munchkin voice so dear to her heart greet the animals with joy.
Oh, thank God!
She raced to the landing and there they were, trying to fight their way up the stairs through leaping dog and meowing cat and Ambrose and Mamie, Izzy and Emmaletta. They seemed to sense her presence. Everyone stopped and looked up.
"Mama!" Katie squealed when she saw Marin. Hunter put her down on the steps and she ran, meeting Marin halfway as they rushed to each other.
She swung Katie up and around, the chubby little arms encircling Marin's neck. Relief calmed all her knotted muscles at the sight of both of her loved ones safe and sound and all in one piece.
She slid into Hunter's embrace. He wore two days growth of beard and smelled of horses and smoke and woods. It was wonderful!
"How is Mother?" he asked, his grin turning to a look that expected the worst.
"She seems to be over the worst of it with her injuries. We still have to worry about infection from the surgery, though. That can be as deadly as the bleeding." She looked toward Lucille's room. "She's probably awake if you want to go see her."
Hunter laid his guns on the table and slipped out of the holster for his knife.
"Come with me," he invited, then hesitated after a couple of steps. He glanced at Katie before asking, "Should we take K-A-T-I-E?" Marin smiled at this age old communication.
"Lucille looks fine, and I think it would do her a world of good." As they made their way to Lucille's room Marin could wait no longer to ask. "What happened out there? Was it Cabot?"
Hunter slowed his pace.
"Yes. He's dead." He turned and studied her face, waiting for her reaction, and she knew Hunter had killed him.
"Good."
The door to Lucille's bedroom stood half open so they dropped the topic for the time being. Hunter peered into the darkened room then looked back at Marin, clearly uncomfortable.
"Is Gwandma awake?" Katie's high-pitched voice pierced the silence. She scrambled from Marin's arms and ran into the room the minute her feet hit the floor. Marin and Hunter followed her in. Marin caught up with Katie just as she was about to hurl herself up onto the bed.
"No, no, Katie. Grandmother is sick. We have to be very gentle with her."
"Stop coddling me. Kathleen, climb up here immediately." The thin, reedy voice rising from within the dark bed hangings held all the vinegar that made it Lucille's.
Hunter gently placed Katie on the bed while Marin parted the draperies to the early morning sun. When she turned back around it was to find Katie and Lucille in a tight embrace. Katie's dirt-stained bottom swayed in the air like an inchworm, her grimy cheek against Lucille's pale one. A string tugged at Marin's heart at the sight of Lucille's tightly closed eyes, the silvery trail of a tear sliding from the corner.
"Well now," Lucille muttered with a weak voice when the hugging was over, "as you can see, I survived. Now when is the wedding?"
*******
Marin tried to stand absolutely still as Madame Lefarge pinned and tucked the ivory silk wedding gown with its final fitting.
"Oh, mon cherie , if you would only allow the strings of the corset to be tightened, your waist would be tiny as the wasp's."
"She ain't gonna let nobody tighten them corset strings. I done told her it ain't fittin' to be wearing that corset so loose." Mamie put in her two cents worth.
"But it is unheard of. You have a figure the ladies would..."
"She ain't gonna do it. You can talk 'til you's hoarse, but she ain't gonna tighten them strings. We been round and round..."
Marin allowed Mamie and the dressmaker to hash over her waistline. She wasn't in the mood to talk today.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. And it had her scared to death. In the last few weeks, since Katie's kidnapping, she'd had some very disturbing experiences, and they were becoming more frequent.
The first thing she'd noticed was the bruise on the back of her hand. It looked like the one she'd found after Ryan had come to her in the hospital the first time. Then, every now and then she would hear a beep...just like the beep of the heart monitor. But this was during the day! And Ryan hadn't come to her in weeks! She'd even willed him to come. Prayed for him to come. But her nights were haunted with nightmares, not ghosts of dead husbands. Nearly every night she woke in a sweat after dreaming that Hunter had died some horrible death. Each time the dream was different. And each time Marin could only stand and watch while her screams came out as hisses and her muscles refused to move.
And then there was what happened this morning.
As she'd strolled the gardens with Katie, collecting a bouquet of roses for Lucille, she suddenly became very light-headed. Then a voice, as clear and rea
l as Katie's, had said, "Dr. Gayford, line three. Dr. Gayford, line three." It was the voice on a hospital PA system.
If only she had someone to talk to. Hunter was out of the question. When he'd woken her from one of her nightmares she told him how he'd died in it. He had just held her tight for a while, then when she calmed down he rolled over with his back to her. It seemed nothing she did could break through that wall he'd built around himself. It would only alienate him more to tell him about hearing sounds from 1996.
Something was wrong. Something was going to happen. Could she control it when it did?
"Marin, the musicians are here for us to go over the..." Hunter's speech faltered when he stopped in the middle of the door and raked her from head to toe with his gaze.
"Hunter! Get out!" she screeched and jumped from the footstool she'd been standing on. "It's bad luck! Get out!" She shoved her bewildered husband through the door, screaming, "Get out! Get out!"
Dear lord, she was going crazy! She was pushing her husband out of the room over some stupid old wive's tale. But all she could think of was tempting fate. Her nerves stretched to the snapping point. Finally she just sank into a puddle of ivory silk in the middle of the floor and let the dam burst.
"Marin!"
"Mon cherie!"
"Miz Marin!"
She covered her face with her hands and ignored the frantic voices. All the pressures were getting to her. Every time she looked at Hunter she wondered if it would be the last time. Every time she put her head on her pillow she wondered if Ryan would come. Now she felt as though she was being pulled back to 1996. She didn't know where she belonged. She couldn't stay here and lose another loved one. Yet she couldn't bear the thought of leaving her husband.
Hunter lifted her to her feet while Mamie and Madame Lefarge fussed over her. She brushed all their hands away, then ran a knuckle under her eyes to wipe the tears.
"I'm alright," she said, forcing herself to sound upbeat. "I don't know why I got so upset." Three pairs of eyes slid to her abdomen. "Oh, for Pete's sake! No! I'm not pregnant!"
Bright spots of pink glowed in Madame Lefarge's cheeks. Marin cringed at her nineteenth century faux pas. No doubt if she said the word pregnant again in mixed company the poor dressmaker would have a fit of the vapors.
