by Howe, Cheryl
She backed into the mare, making the animal paw at the ground and toss its head. She wanted to turn and calm the frightened horse before it whinnied, but to do so meant she had to turn her back on the madman. Fear froze her muscles, forcing her to watch his every move. She prayed Beth and Rachel would stay asleep.
The man untied the bandanna from around his neck and balled it in his fist.
Archie moved to block his path. “You said you weren’t going to hurt her. I’m going with you to make sure you keep that promise.”
The man grabbed Archie by the shirtfront and shoved him hard. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you the moment I saw you.”
Archie landed on his backside in the stream.
The gunman turned back to Lorelei, apparently not giving Archie a second thought. “Open your mouth.”
Lorelei clamped her lips together, her jaw clenched.
She didn’t even have time to consider how he would take her defiance before he slapped her hard across the face with his open palm. She stumbled back, but somehow caught herself from dropping to her knees. Never had she been struck before, not even by her parents for punishment or her brothers in play. And this man was definitely not playing. Stars danced before her eyes. Pain and shock squeezed her throat. She righted herself and opened her mouth obediently.
He placed the front of the bandanna across her open mouth and tied the ends behind her head. Before he could secure the knot, a moving blur caught her wide gaze. Archie lunged at the man, using all his body weight to shove him away from her. They landed on the ground in a shower of dust. Archie reared back to hit the other man, but was easily thrown off. The man quickly got to his feet, a knife in his hand.
Archie struggled to regain his balance, but his own equilibrium swayed him like a slowing top.
The stranger gripped and ungripped the knife in his right hand. His face shone with a combination of hatred and pleasure. Archie didn’t have a chance, and neither did Lorelei if she didn’t do something fast.
She thought to run, but the two men were blocking her path to the house. If she headed toward the desert, he would surely find her.
The man stalked to Archie, a smile on his face. “I’m going to enjoy killing you, you two faced drunk. You’re the one who hooked us up with Sullivan in the first place.”
Archie backed up no more that a few feet, then apparently braced himself for his assailant’s attack empty-handed. He never glanced her way, but she noticed he had left her room to dart past once the other man was close enough to attack. Archie had said she should save herself. Though she hated to leave him, she saw no other choice.
Once the other man had his back to her, she inched her way forward. She searched the ground and found a good sized rock. Maybe she could hit their assailant on the back of the head. He wasn’t tall for a man, but he was still taller than she.
The outlaw laughed when he came in striking range of Archie. The fact that Archie held his ground seemed to amuse him. “You gonna dance for me?”
He jabbed at Archie’s head, forcing him to duck to miss the blow. The madman then thrust to Archie’s left side, then stabbed at his right shoulder. He pulled back the blade at the last minute. His soft laughter echoed with each twist and jerk Archie made.
The man’s perverse game cemented Lorelei’s resolve not to let Archie be cut down. She came up behind the knife wielding lunatic, the rock she had spotted earlier lifted above her head. She hoped using both hands would give her the strength she needed.
Just as she rose up on her toes, the man dipped his right shoulder and jabbed the knife into Archie’s midsection. He arched the blade upward, practically lifting Archie off the ground.
Lorelei brought the rock down on the man’s head as hard as she could. As soon as it connected with a sickening thud, she dropped the stone and ran. In a brief burst of hope, she thought she had escaped.
When the hem of her dress caught, she tugged as hard as she could, not caring if she tore the garment. She didn’t dare turn around.
When she couldn’t free the dress dragging her backward, she knew she hadn’t come close to escaping.
Finally she twisted to face her opponent. He lay on the ground with his hands securely wrapped in the end of her skirt. She kicked at his face in an attempt to dislodge him. The movement was a mistake. He easily caught her ankle and brought her to the ground hard on her rump. He dragged her to him and yanked her up by her neck as he got to his feet. He held her tightly, cutting off her breath.
Before she could worry about being choked to death, he slapped her hard across the face with his palm, then with the back of his hand. She sagged, the grip he had on her neck the only thing keeping her upright. The permanent sneer on his face, the deep green shrub behind his right shoulder, blurred. Darkness crept around the edges of her vision. Just as she thought she had taken her last breath, he released his stranglehold.
He prevented her collapse to the ground by gripping her shoulders and shaking her hard. She was too stunned to keep her head from snapping back.
“You do something like that again and you’ll be sorry, you little bitch. I’ll work you over good.”
His angry red face invaded her senses and sharpened her return to reality. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see him. Not wanting to be conscious at all. He slapped her again lightly, not to hurt her, but to get her attention.
“You listen to me when I’m talking. You know how to write?”
She couldn’t answer. His words didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.
He squeezed her arms. “You know how to write?”
She blinked. “Yes,” she said, relieved she could answer in the affirmative. He might kill her if she said no.
He whipped her around. “Good. ’Cause we’re going to leave your brother a message before we go.” With a bone crunching grip on her forearm he dragged her to Archie’s body, which lay sprawled, flat on its back, a knife sticking from the center of the chest. Blood stained his shirtfront a slick, shiny red. A pink cloud swirled, then dispersed as Archie’s life drained down the shallow stream.
The man held her as he leaned forward to retrieve the knife. She unconsciously tugged away, unable to look any closer. He yanked her with greater force, sending her to her knees beside Archie.
“You get a good look, girl. You give me a second of trouble and that’s what you’ll look like.” He came down behind her. A firm grip on her shoulder kept her on her knees.
“Let’s see here.” He swayed to grab something on his left. “This will do.”
He handed her a twisted twig less than six inches long. “Just dip that into his blood and we’ll leave your brother a message that will tell him we ain’t messing around.”
She held the stick in her right hand, unable to follow his request. Hot tears stung her cheeks before she realized she was crying. She was afraid to refuse him, yet feared she couldn’t comply with his request no matter how grave the consequences.
“Oh, come on. He’s dead already. It ain’t going to hurt him.” He grabbed her wrist that held the twig and forced her to stick the end in the puckered wound in Archie’s chest. She turned her head away and closed her eyes.
“Now get it good and bloody. I want my message to be real clear.”
He jerked her in another direction. “Come on. Open your eyes. You got to write.”
She did and was grateful she was staring at a patch of dirt. If she kept her gaze averted, she couldn’t even see Archie.
“What should I write?” she asked, surprised that she still had a voice at all.
“Ricochet. That’s all. He’ll know what that means.”
***
Braddock rode into Jay’s silent homestead with the devil on his heels. Both pistols were drawn before his feet hit the ground. Keeping low, he made his way to the side of the house, flattened himself against a spot free from the window’s view, and waited and listened. He should have left Lucky far from the house and approached on foot. Thinking clearly had
n’t been an option. Getting to Lorelei had been driving him ever since he left Specter Canyon.
Braddock’s heavy breathing was the only sound that filled the yard. Maybe he had beaten Ricochet here. Or maybe he was too late and they were all already dead. Ricochet had already murdered a dozen or so hardened criminals, his own friends. Killing women and children and a man who’d lost a leg would hardly make him break a sweat.
He should have known Archie would return with trouble. Either he’d brought Ricochet here in a drunken stupor or the outlaw had just followed him. Archie would have started drinking once he arrived at Mulcahy’s hideout, if only to show the gang he was still a harmless drunk. And once the alcohol touched his lips, it would be all over. Archie was a talkative drunk.
Braddock slid along the planked wall and peeked in the kitchen window. The sight of plates still on the table, food left unwrapped to spoil, scared him more than if he had seen Ricochet holding a knife to Lorelei’s throat. That, he could fight. The sense that he was too late, that the curse had won its biggest victory yet, squeezed the breath from his throat.
And Braddock had played right into the curse’s hands. He had ordered Lorelei to stay at the ranch. All the while, death and destiny had been rushing forward to meet her. Braddock pushed away from the house. He should have known.
He had known. He had killed Lorelei as surely as if he had done it with his bare hands. How many had to die before he figured it out? The curse would always be with him. He lived by sucking the life out of everyone around him.
He strode to the barn, no longer making any attempt at stealth. He wanted to be seen. Needed something to fight. He stopped suddenly, a step away from obliterating a trail of footprints. A churned patch of dirt narrowed into the shape of boots and the smaller prints of a woman as it wound around the barn. Lorelei.
By the size of the booted feet, he guessed the man to be close to his own height. Not Ricochet, but probably Archie. Braddock fought the urge to follow the prints in a mad dash. The trail was still distinct. But the dry, windless day made placing an accurate time on them impossible.
One last glance around the yard drew his attention to the pump. A full bucket rested underneath the spout. It flowed over with each new drip. A deep well didn’t stay primed long. Each splash that fell from the spout said that someone had been there. Recently.
He turned and followed the path, his pistols gripped with renewed fierceness. He sprinted, careful to keep his heavy footfalls off the trail. The prints blended together, then veered drunkenly. Lorelei and her companion walked close together. Either she guided and supported the other man or he dragged her. Braddock didn’t have time to figure out which.
He pushed his way through the heavy brush choking the stream’s bank. The top of Ricochet’s head appeared above a giant sage as he swung up on his horse. Braddock kept moving while he took aim.
His boot hit something solid. Glancing down, he saw Archie lying in the stream. He stepped over him without another thought. His peripheral vision told him Lorelei sat on the horse next to Ricochet. It took all Braddock’s effort not to let his gaze stray to her.
Ricochet didn’t appear to notice the gun pointed at him. He tugged on the reins of his horse, ready to ride off in the other direction.
Without the slightest qualm about shooting a man in the back, Braddock pulled the trigger.
He missed. The horse screamed and went down as Ricochet tried to whirl the animal in the shot’s direction.
Lorelei turned to see what had happened. She quickly took control of her own panicked mount and spurred the animal toward Braddock.
Though she blocked his line of fire, he couldn’t stop the smile that broke across his face, his relief at seeing her alive and well a tangible thing.
“Go. Head back to the house,” he yelled at her.
In the same instant Ricochet untangled himself from his fallen horse. He walked toward Braddock with a rifle propped against his shoulder.
Braddock reaimed but staggered back at the sound of the rifle’s discharge, dropping his gun.
“No!” Lorelei screamed. Her voice sounded muffled and farther away than he knew she was.
He tried to right himself and grab his other gun. Ricochet didn’t seem to notice that he hadn’t killed him. He trained his rifle on Lorelei’s retreating form.
“Run,” Braddock wanted to yell, but instead he fell to his knees. His left arm didn’t seem to work, so he grabbed the gun from his useless grip with his other hand. Pain burst over him like a mortar shell, stealing the breath from his lungs, but he wasn’t exactly sure of its origin. He knew he’d been hit but didn’t dare look to see where or how bad.
For some reason, Ricochet fired a shot that purposely missed Lorelei. “Get back here, you little bitch. You make me chase you to the house, there’re going be some dead kids.”
Braddock realized Ricochet wanted her alive. Not caring why, he used all his strength to get to his feet. If his aim had been off before, it was now hopeless. He might as well shoot with his eyes closed. He fired, but with his eyes open.
He didn’t hit Ricochet but forced the man to aim the rifle at him and away from Lorelei. Ricochet moved forward in long strides. He positioned the rifle to shoot Braddock in the forehead. Braddock’s pistol slipped from his limp fingers. He could feel the life draining from him with his blood. He heard the sounds of horses’ hooves beating the ground behind him. They sounded closer, not farther away. Jesus, why wasn’t Lorelei heading toward the house? Braddock fell to his hands and knees, desperate to retrieve his gun.
Ricochet kicked the only pistol within Braddock’s line of vision away, then touched the muzzle of the rifle to Braddock’s forehead. The hot steel burned his skin.
He heard the rifle blast but felt nothing. Maybe he no longer had a head. He slumped to the ground and waited. A wound in his midsection throbbed, sending streaks of pain through every nerve. Gunshot wounds hurt more than he had imagined. The experience definitely rivaled any guilt he had incurred watching his men die during the war. He didn’t let his heavy lids close, though all he could see was dirt. He wanted to greet death with his eyes open. They’d both been waiting a long time for this meeting.
He heard Lorelei’s voice in the distance, then another voice telling her to stay back. He wanted to push up, to turn to see what was happening, but his limbs didn’t respond. He strained his gaze until he saw the worn soles of a pair of boots. The right one had a hole on the ball of the foot, and the owner wore fuzzy red socks the color of overripe apples. Braddock closed his eyes, unable to see anything else.
Hands on his shoulders tugged at him, making him cry out when he didn’t want to. He was rolled over onto his back, and the movement sliced through his entire body. The whole dying business was much more unpleasant at this end. He wouldn’t forget that again.
Lorelei’s face loomed above his. He wanted to smile but doubted those muscles worked either.
“Oh, my God, Christopher. My God.”
She fumbled with his clothes, expanding the pain in sharp jolts. He weakly tried to push her hands away, but she easily overpowered him.
“Please be still. We have to stop the bleeding.”
She probed around the wound, and then he felt pressure as she pushed down hard with both hands. He moaned softly, glad he didn’t have the energy to scream as he intended. Miraculously the pressure she applied eased the fist that had been squeezing his lungs, and he was able to draw a steady, calming breath. Lorelei’s presence made it all all right. She was alive. Ricochet hadn’t killed her. Relief flooded his tight muscles. Maybe he would close his eyes for a while.
“Is he dead?” Braddock heard her ask softly.
“Yeah, he is. I never killed anyone before, Lori.”
Braddock pried his eyes open. He wasn’t dead yet, but he didn’t have the strength to tell them so. Corey knelt in front of him, a shotgun clutched in his right hand. He looked pale, as if he had been hit too. But Braddock didn’t see any blood.
The kid had obviously never killed anyone before. At least he had been telling the truth about that. Since Braddock knew Corey didn’t shoot him, he gladly assumed they were talking about Ricochet.
“Thank you. You saved Christopher’s life.”
Braddock watched the expression on Corey’s face as the boy gazed at his wound. He didn’t seem to think he had saved Braddock’s life at all.
Corey’s gaze darted back to his sister. He gently touched her taut arm.
“Lori,” he said softly.
“Go to the barn and gather up some cobwebs. We need to get the bleeding stopped. The bullet passed through his back. I saw the wound. He has a chance.”
Corey studied Braddock’s chest again. He chewed his bottom lip, his eyebrows drawn together. If his expression weren’t enough, Braddock noticed he was in no hurry to follow his sister’s orders. “Lori,” he said again softly.
“Dear Lord!”
Braddock recognized Beth’s voice. Through hooded eyes he watched her stop in front of him. She held little Rachel to her chest, cradling her head in her palm, keeping her face buried in her shoulder. He closed his eyes, not wanting Beth to see him like this but unable to do a thing about it. For the first time in his life he was completely and totally helpless.
“What happened?” asked Beth.
“It’s a long story. Could you bring some hot water and bandages? And hurry, please,” pleaded Lorelei. Her voice sounded rough with unshed tears.
“Where are Jay and the kids?” Beth’s voice shook with fear instead of sorrow. Before Braddock could think what he was doing, he pushed up on his elbows. He assumed Jay was in the field. Lorelei, Beth, Rachel, even Corey were all safe. Nobody had died except Archie, whom Braddock didn’t grieve for too much, since he had led Ricochet to Lorelei. Apparently Ricochet had died—but that was justice at work, not the Braddock curse.
Corey forced Braddock’s shoulders back to the ground. The silent tension left in the wake of Beth’s unanswered question forced Braddock to lift his head. He couldn’t rest until he knew what had happened to Jay and his kids.
