Distant Thunder

by Lisa Bingham

  “Give … it.”

  “No.”

  “Su … san … obey … me.”

  With a sob, Susan sank to her knees and threw the revolver to the ground.

  Erin’s fingers crawled, inch by inch, bit by bit. She encountered the grip but didn’t have the strength to tug it toward her.

  “Susan … I love … you.” The one green eye was pressed shut. A tear slipped free to mingle with the blood. “Help … me.”

  Susan sobbed and backed away like a crab scuttling in the sand. “No!”

  The black barrel gleamed on the ground next to her mother’s distorted hand.

  “Do not … disobey. Help … Then run … back to cellar. Please … help.” The slit of a mouth that had once been lovely and had kissed Susan’s cheek and whispered secrets in her ear opened, gasping for air to plead again. But no words emerged. That one green eye grew cloudy, lifeless. Dim.

  “Mama?” The shape that no longer resembled her mother did not move.

  Susan had disobeyed. She had not stayed in the cellar. She had not kept her eyes closed.

  She had killed a man.

  Crawling forward, she tried to shake Mama awake. But the flesh beneath her fingers felt odd. Unresponsive. “Mama! Answer me!” Horror threatened to consume her. She alone was responsible. If she had not disobeyed, her mother would have been safe. Her voice dropped to a painful whisper. “Mama? Mama? Mama …”

  The bedroom echoed in silence. The air hung still.

  Silent.

  In the aftermath of Susan’s story Daniel didn’t know what to say. What could anyone say? In all these years, no one had ever known, ever suspected, what had happened to Susan as a young girl. Though Susan’s reaction to men had caused many people to surmise that she’d seen her mother being raped, no one had ever guessed that her scars were due to more. So much more. In her childish mind she had truly believed that if she’d obeyed her mother’s commands, her family would not have been destroyed. For too long she’d carried the burden alone, thinking that God would demand a terrible penance of her for killing the deserter and for causing her parents’ murder. That was probably why she had entered the convent—by serving God she had hoped to atone for her supposed sins.

  But Daniel had stormed into her life, shaking that belief and drawing her away from her own tangled notion of justice. And now he had reopened the wounds. He had painfully resurrected the child in order to heal the woman.

  Folding her close, Daniel absorbed her shuddering sobs. And then, when the tears began, he rocked her, saying over and over, “It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t your fault.”

  Lifting her face, he forced her to look at him. “Your mother loved you. She loved you. She would never have wanted you to feel such pain. When she asked you to obey, she only meant to protect you.”

  “I should have helped her! In the end she begged me to help her, but I didn’t. I could have done something! If I’d behaved differently, if I’d obeyed her, she wouldn’t have suffered. I should have found a way to ease her pain.”

  “You did, sweetheart, you did. You were with her at the end. She adored you. She loved you. She wanted to protect you. Neither she nor God would demand penance for what happened. Don’t you see? Your mother could have lingered, but God took her. He took her so she wouldn’t suffer. So you wouldn’t suffer. He carried her spirit away to a place where she would be happy and free from pain. He never meant for you to torture yourself this way.”

  The words shimmered in the silence that followed.

  “He took her,” Susan echoed. Her hands clutched his shirt. She wanted, needed, to know that what Daniel said was true.

  In her husband’s eyes she found no disgust, no blame. Only a wealth of understanding. At one time she had thought that by becoming a nun she could atone for her part in her parents’ death. But God hadn’t demanded penance; Susan had. It had taken Daniel to make her see that.

  “You haven’t done anything wrong, sweetheart. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  She buried her head beneath his chin and wrapped her arms about his waist.

  The wounds began to heal.

  Chapter 23

  Timmy Libbley hid behind the water tower and watched. The freight train had pulled into Ashton at half past one in the morning. It would remain there, taking on supplies, for another quarter of an hour.

  The young Pinkerton agent huddled in the cold and waited. Five minutes passed. Ten. The engine began to pant and gather energy.

  As soon as the huge iron wheels ground into motion, Timmy swung into his saddle. Avoiding the shower of sparks being thrown from the track, he urged his mount into a gallop.

  After taking the shortcut through the trees, he reined to a stop in front of Jedidiah Kutter.

  “Did they take the bait and try to stop the train?”

  “Nope. There wasn’t a sign of a Dooley for miles.”

  Kutter swore, wrenching his hat from his head and swiping at his brow. “You’re sure you planted the information about the dynamite with one of the Dooleys when you were in that saloon in Barryville?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the man appeared interested?”

  “I’d say so. The whole clan started whooping and hollering.”

  “Then why didn’t they come?” Kutter jammed his hat on. The original plan had been to lure some of the Dooleys out of hiding with a crate of dynamite, pick a few of them off, and follow them back to their camp, thus giving the Pinkertons the upper hand. Kutter had counted on knowing when the Dooleys planned to attack by having his own men follow them each step of the way. Now he had no more idea where they could be camped than he’d had a week ago.

  Kutter signaled to one of the men who lingered next to the track. “Stop the train and retrieve the dynamite. No sense sending the explosives all the way back to Cheyenne.”

  Braxton Hill saluted, then swung the lantern from side to side. The locomotive grumbled in the distance, shuddered, and eventually squealed to a stop.

  Braxton and his men rode up to the final boxcar and clambered aboard. A few seconds later they reappeared.

  “Kutter!”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you’d better come here, sir.”

  “Damn, damn, damn.” Kutter reined his horse toward the train. Timmy hesitantly followed.

  “Well? What’s the problem?”

  Braxton hunkered down and eyed Timmy.

  “You’re sure no one tried to board the train at the station, boy?”

  “I’m positive, sir.”

  “And you telegraphed the order for the dynamite personally and specified it was to be sent without fuses?”

  Timmy paled. “I forgot to tell them about the fuses.”

  “Shit. Did you confirm that the dynamite was loaded at all?”

  Timmy shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Don’t stammer!”

  Timmy jumped at Kutter’s rebuke. But Kutter soon lost interest in reprimanding him and glared at the wiry man squatting on the threshold of the boxcar. “Why all the questions?”

  Braxton spit into the snow in disgust. “It’s gone. The dynamite is gone.”

  Susan woke to find her head resting on Daniel’s shoulder, her hair tangled between them. She blinked, staring at the bright patch of sunlight on the opposite wall. Then she gradually became aware that her arms hugged his waist and her nightgown rode high on her thighs.

  But for once she felt no mortification, no guilt, no shame. Though the fear still lingered, deep inside her mind, the emotion was fainter now. Drawing upon the strength and absolution Daniel had offered her, she knew that she could one day be whole.

  When she shifted, Daniel’s fingers slipped into her hair, urging her to stay where she was. “Don’t get up. Not yet. Just lie here and rest some more.”

  Surrendering, she lay in his arms, absorbing the heat of his body, the steady beat of his he
art. Turning her head, she pressed a kiss to his collarbone.

  He grew still beneath her.

  “Last night …”

  She pressed two fingers over his lips. “Thank you.” Nothing more needed to be said. Her eyes conveyed her tacit message.

  Bending close, she kissed his jaw, his chin, then touched her lips to his.

  “Do you know,” he stated hesitantly, “that when I first saw your hair loose, there was one thing that I wanted but thought I’d never have.”

  “What?”

  He shifted, gradually, tenderly, until Susan lay across his chest. Their legs tangled intimately. Her lips were poised above his.

  “Just once I wanted to have you lean over me with your hair falling around your shoulders so that I could hold you beneath a curtain of fire.”

  Delight spilled into her veins. Fear skittered away.

  He urged her closer. Softly, gently, the tip of his nose skimmed her cheek, her nose, in a teasing caress. Then his mouth met hers. Susan did not back away. She buried the wispy remains of blackness and reveled in his embrace. Daniel’s mouth became eager, then grew hungry. He completely possessed her with his kiss.

  She clutched the pillow beneath his head, shutting out everything but the taste and smell of Daniel.

  He was the one who drew away. His eyes darkened with passion. “We’ll take things step by step.”

  “Yes,” she replied breathlessly.

  Proud of herself, Susan scrambled from the bed. Daniel didn’t follow. Clasping his hands behind his head, he studied her every move. Momentarily daunted at the intimacy of having him watch her dress, Susan managed to slip her camisole and pantalets on beneath her nightdress. Her corset, however, proved to be a more difficult matter. Muttering under her breath, she tried to fasten the busk, but the laces had been tightened for her wedding and would have to be redone.

  “Allow me.”

  Susan squealed when Daniel grasped the hem of her gown and drew it over her head. Then he firmly turned her around and fastened her corset before handing her the butternut wool dress she’d folded over the arm of the rocker.

  His gaze grew heated, fathomless, when his eyes met hers. He caressed the gentle slope of her shoulders.

  She grew still.

  He smiled.

  Her eyes darkened.

  His burned. Then he kissed her, long, slow, and wet.

  When he lifted his head, she clutched her dress in a rumpled wad. When she managed to get into it at last, her cheeks flaming, he reached for his trousers and began to clothe himself. By the time he’d finished, Susan had neatly plaited her hair and fastened it with another ribbon.

  In the mirror above the dresser, Susan watched Daniel approach. He tweaked her braid and pulled her to the door. “Give it time, Susan. Right now the only thing that should trouble you is what we’ll have for breakfast.”

  After opening the door, he ushered her into the hall. On the opposite side of the threshold, blocking the corridor, lay a pile of Daniel’s things.

  “Donovan!” Daniel bellowed.

  Susan began to laugh.

  Sister Mary Margaret found Max at the huge kitchen table in the Ashton convent. He sat in his customary position, head down, arms protectively circling his plate as if he feared someone would take it—a habit he’d picked up during his two years in Andersonville prison during the war.

  “Max?”

  He didn’t answer, but continued to stare morosely into his cereal. Mary Margaret was relieved to find him in the kitchen. Since arriving in Ashton, he had taken to wandering the countryside, gathering treasures to put in his cigar box: rocks, bottles, matches, and twine.

  “How would you like some raisins and honey in your oatmeal?” Usually the thought of such a treat would have brightened Max’s week.

  He barely moved.

  Sighing, Mary Margaret took the seat beside him. “Max, Susan hasn’t abandoned you. She’s simply gone on to a new life.”

  He looked up at her, his expression tortured. “She was supposed to marry God.”

  Mary Margaret chafed his enormous work-worn hands. “Don’t you want her to be happy?”

  His lower lip jutted out in a sulky little-boy pout. “I didn’t want her to leave.”

  “I know, Max. I know. But Daniel Crocker will be good to her. You’ll see.”

  “Better’n God?” His chin trembled. His eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, Max,” she murmured, feeling an echo of his pain. Gently she drew his grizzled head onto her shoulder. “She was a true friend to you, wasn’t she? Someone special.”

  He nodded, clutching huge fistfuls of Mary Margaret’s habit. “She has to come back. She has to! I’ve got to make her come back.”

  “She can’t come back, Max. She doesn’t belong in a convent anymore.” Mary Margaret tried to think of a way to explain the situation in terms he could understand. “Do you remember the baby bird you found in the stables at the convent?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “You were such a good friend to that baby bird, Max. You nursed it and fed it and kept it warm. But what happened when it grew big?”

  He refused to speak, even though she knew he remembered that little sparrow more clearly than he remembered his own departed family.

  Mary Margaret continued, “He had never been around other birds. He didn’t even know he was a bird. He used to hop around the yard or ride on your shoulder, but he couldn’t fly. So what did you do, Max?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “You were so wise. What did you do?”

  “I—I took it out to the forest.”

  “Yes,” she encouraged.

  “I let it play with the other birds.”

  “And then what?”

  He clutched her tighter, but there was no answer.

  “You let him go, Max.”

  He sobbed.

  “Let Susan go, Max.”

  “No-oo.”

  “Let her go.”

  He cried, his mouth open, eyes squeezed shut in abject misery. His giant’s body shook with great heartrending sobs.

  But Sister Mary Margaret rocked him back and forth like the child he was, knowing that someday soon Max would have to find a way to resign himself to the situation.

  Chapter 24

  Susan stood shivering on the back stoop watching Daniel prepare his horse. A faint streak of light smudged the horizon, promising a cold winter day to come.

  Instead of wearing his calfskin coat, Daniel had chosen a heavy canvas duster. Underneath, he’d dressed in denims, a chambray shirt, and another, shorter, fleece-lined black jacket. Susan understood that the clothes were, in a way, the uniform Daniel wore while working with the Pinkertons, since they allowed him to move quickly and silently.

  “You could wait in the house,” he said, noting her chattering teeth and pinched expression.

  “No.”

  After another searching glance, he looped his saddlebags over Chief’s rump.

  Susan followed each motion he made with an outward show of dispassionate concern. Inside she was a quivering mass of nerves. Since their wedding night, she and Daniel had grown closer to each other than ever before.

  Then, late Saturday night, one of Daniel’s men had come to the orphanage and taken him away. Susan had waited impatiently while one hour melted into two. Then three. Daniel had returned, preoccupied and exuding an aura of quiet energy. But he would not tell her where he had been. Only that he had work to do the next day with the Pinkertons.

  Later, in bed, he’d kissed her with a passion that startled and delighted her at the same time, then held her tightly against him, her head tucked under his chin. He’d remained motionless, silent, as if afraid he’d shatter the moment. As time passed, Susan began to fear his last assignment would be a dangerous one.

  She had heard enough about the Pinkertons to know what Daniel would be facing in the next few hours. Here in the West, t
he Pinkertons had a reputation for relentlessly tracking their prey. They used whatever means necessary—usually violence.

  Judging by Daniel’s restlessness, Susan guessed that his assignment would bring him in contact with the Dooleys. Although she’d had no personal experience involving them, Susan knew they were ruthless. They’d been responsible for countless murders, countless fires.

  And they killed.

  Susan hadn’t slept the entire night. She’d lain in Daniel’s arms, listening to the sound of his steady breathing and the rhythmic beat of his heart. Over and over again she’d prayed to God and every saint in heaven to keep him safe. Her grasp on her own inner peace was nearly secure now, but if something were to happen to Daniel …

  She couldn’t bear to think of it. She didn’t think she could survive if something happened to him. She had grown to love him so deeply.

  Love him.

  She’d loved him forever, she supposed. First as a child—he’d been her idol, her protector, her friend, her confidant. But now she loved him in the most profound way that a woman could love a man. All that remained was to consummate that love.

  Once, when he’d thought she was asleep, Daniel had slipped from the bed to stand at the window. Susan hesitated only briefly before joining him, encircling his waist and pressing her lips to the indentation of his spine. They’d stood that way for what seemed like hours, partaking of each other’s strength and affection. But Daniel hadn’t talked to her. He refused to speak of his job and what he anticipated would happen. She knew he meant to protect her, but his silence only made her worry more.

  When dawn came, Daniel had donned a cloak of emotional distance along with his dark clothing. Sensing he needed to keep his mind on the hours ahead, Susan had brewed some coffee, then allowed him to tend silently to his affairs.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Daniel said, breaking into her thoughts. He pulled on the cinch of his saddle and dropped the stirrup into place. “It’ll be at least a day. Maybe two.”

  He looked up in time to see Susan nod. The air around them was frigid, each breath he took clouded in the air. But Susan had refused to stay inside. And he had needed to feel the strength of her presence so much that he hadn’t forced the issue.