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  His pleasure heightening with each subsequent taunting word, Fallon said, “Ruthann wants me to fuck her. I can feel it, right here between her legs. And then I’ll kill her before your eyes, Rawley, just like I once killed your mother, what do you think of that?”

  I acted without thinking, terrified by the loss of control on Marshall’s face. Fallon’s left arm, pointed downward as he gripped my pelvis, no longer restrained me against his chest and I twisted sideways, grabbing his right wrist with both hands, using my weight and momentum to drag his hand – and the gun – toward the floor. The gun discharged, a bright orange flame exploding from the barrel, and annihilated all other sound.

  Fallon’s vicious punch caught me between the shoulder blades, propelling all breath from my lungs; I sprawled flat on my belly, unable to break the fall, as Marshall lunged over the bed and took Fallon backward. I would have scrambled away if I could breathe. Straddling Fallon, Marshall seized his neck with both hands and slammed Fallon’s head repeatedly against the floorboards before bearing down with all his strength. From my vantage point I saw Fallon’s boots scraping the floor as he tried to heave upward and buck Marshall’s hold. And as I watched, mouth flopping like that of a hooked fish in an effort to draw air into my chest cavity, Fallon began fading.

  No! He’s getting away…

  Just before he vanished from view, Fallon lifted the gun and fired pointblank at Marshall.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Iowa Plains - June, 1882

  MALCOLM AND I DRESSED IN YESTERDAY’S CLOTHES, GATH-ered our belongings, and left behind our room at the hotel before the day was an hour old. We checked in at the telegraph office, discovering no additional news, and then collected Aces High from the livery stable. Once Aces was headed northwest at a cantering clip we ate a breakfast of corn muffins the woman at the hotel had been kind enough to send with us, perplexed by our early, rapid departure. We shared water from Malcolm’s canteen when Aces slowed to a walk, the proximity of our bodies torturous in a way it hadn’t yet been yesterday. Yesterday we hadn’t fully realized, let alone tested, the depth of our connection. Today, we knew just how powerfully it bound us.

  Yesterday, we hadn’t yet spent the entire night making love.

  Rain loomed on the western horizon within the first five miles. I smelled it almost immediately, Malcolm and I watching as heavy pewter clouds released silvery sheets of water in the distance. There was no avoiding the downpour.

  “At least we’ll be clean,” I said, trying to make a joke. I was shaky and distracted and overwhelmed, even sheltered as I was against his chest and within the circle of his arms. I’d braided my hair and slung the braid over my shoulder so my hair wouldn’t be in the way when I turned my face toward Malcolm’s neck, inhaling, sometimes resting my lips upon the skin his open shirt collar exposed. In turn, he pressed soft kisses to my temple, gliding his free hand – the one not holding the reins – in gentle, sensual patterns over my belly, my arm, my thigh.

  “What if we started a child, last night?” he quietly asked at one point, resting the length of his hand flat on my stomach.

  This had occurred to me as well. I had no earthly idea how to respond; he sensed this and didn’t push further.

  But awareness of the possibility burned between us.

  We rode toward the sheeting rain for perhaps thirty minutes before struck by the first sting of cold droplets; I couldn’t shake the ominous metaphors infiltrating my mind as we approached an inescapable storm. Malcolm reined Aces to a halt and quickly dismounted, rooting in his saddle bag, extracting and then shaking out a rain blanket. He paused for a second, resting a warm hand on my calf. In the ashy sheen cast by thick clouds he looked up at me, his dark eyes so full of feeling I realized I would never recover from loving him.

  “We have hard riding ahead, love. I am sorry, I wish it wasn’t so.”

  I held his gaze, aching and overcome. “I can do it.”

  Once again in the saddle, he situated the blanket like a shawl around us and I tucked the ends near my breasts, creating as much protection as possible.

  “Keep close, we’re in for a soaking,” he murmured, kissing the top of my head, shifting his hips to urge Aces into forward motion. The horse snorted and whooshed, tossing his long brown head, clearly communicating his displeasure at the crying sky. Malcolm leaned to pat his horse’s neck, murmuring, “We been through worse, ain’t we, boy? C’mon now, we gotta catch up with Cole.”

  “How far ahead are they, do you think?”

  “If we figure that Cole got them to Windham, as he intended, we should reach them by early evening.”

  “I’m sorry to put you through all this.”

  The rain swiftly obliterated all chance of further conversation, but Malcolm put his lips to my ear so I would hear over the pounding assault. “Don’t be sorry, Camille, not for a thing. Having you here in my arms means more to me than any heaven I could imagine.”

  Tears surged, mixing with the rain, and I closed my eyes, huddling as close to him as I could; his hat offered some shelter but the onslaught of water grew brutal. Aces was forced to a walk, shying from the incessant deluge striking us at a slanted angle. No lightning accompanied the storm and we could have sought shelter beneath a cover of trees, if any were in sight. At last Malcolm tugged Aces to a standstill, angling him sideways so our heads, all three, were offered some meager protection. Yesterday’s unrelenting sun became a distant memory. Malcolm rewrapped the rain blanket, tucking my head to his chest. Despite our combined warmth, shivers overtook my limbs.

  “Hang on, love, it’ll soon pass,” he murmured in my ear, and within fifteen minutes the worst of it blew over, hauling the rain westward, leaving behind a soggy but manageable drizzle. Malcolm removed his hat, shaking excess moisture from its brim before doing the same thing with the blanket. He dismounted to resituate it behind him on the saddle, patting Aces on the neck and speaking to the animal in low tones while I squeezed out my braid and willed my muscles to stop quivering.

  Standing beside Aces, rubbing his horse’s damp hide, Malcolm sent me a grin and the fault lines along my heart throbbed; tenderness came so naturally to him. He observed, “Aw, sweetheart, your lips are blue.”

  “Yours…too,” I mumbled, hard-pressed to speak through my numb, discolored mouth. “Come back…up here…please.”

  He took the saddle in a hurry, curling me close. “C’mere, I’ve got you. Put your face against my neck.”

  The clouds remained thick and inhibiting, intermittently weeping over the prairie as we rode without letup through tall, dripping grasses, along a bumpy road carved into the earth by wagon tracks and hooves. To my relief the air warmed as the hidden sun rose, growing humid; combined with the heat of Malcolm’s body, the chills eventually receded. I decided it was best not to dwell on the state of my hair and clothing. Open prairie dominated the landscape, though from time to time we passed split-rail fences separating the road from cropland, at least some evidence of human habitation. No towns, very few trees. I conjured up an image of Iowa as it appeared on a road map, attempting to guess our exact position. I had no idea, trusting completely in Malcolm’s sense of direction.

  “Where are we?” I asked at one point, when Malcolm slowed Aces to a walk, conserving the horse’s energy. While clouds continued to shadow our route, the rain had finally ceased. The trail was bordered to the right by a trickling creek edged with cottonwoods and willows; it flowed along in a friendly, gurgling rush. “I’m trying to picture where I think we are in the state.”

  “We’re about centered, and I pray a good deal farther south than Dredd and his father aim to travel this day. We’ve a stretch yet to cover, likely eighteen or twenty miles to Windham. How are you holding up?”

  “I’ll make it. I can’t pretend I’m not sore, but I’ll survive.”

  “This sort of travel must seem all-fired strange to you, coming from another century.” His voice took on a faraway quality, as he was attempting to con
jure images of vehicles racing along concrete roadways. How strange that world would seem to his eyes; the image of him and Aces among the clamoring, fast-paced chaos of a city street was so blatantly wrong as to evoke tragedy.

  “It’s slower,” I allowed, lacing the fingers of our left hands. “If we had a car, we could cover that distance in about fifteen minutes. But…” I brought his knuckles to my lips. “We can sit much closer on Aces than we could in any car.”

  “I’ve been thanking God all darn day for that very thing.” I sensed his grin, its warmth enveloping me like a bright, errant sunbeam. He squeezed my fingers, our hands still interlocked and resting between my breasts, and inhaled, about to speak. But I would never know what he intended to say just then, because his bearing snapped alert with such suddenness I gasped.

  “What is it?!” I searched the road stretching before us, seeing nothing but the cloudy-bright landscape through which we’d traveled all day. But something had changed, I knew without being told.

  In the space of a breath Malcolm became the man who had spent much of his life stalked by danger, who had endured perilous conditions I was only beginning to understand; a man whose survival depended on his instinct, his senses, his weapons, and the knowledge of when to fight and when to run. And right now, it was time to run.

  Severe and intense, he ordered, “Lean forward, hold tight to his mane. Don’t let go. Don’t lift your head.”

  I felt Malcolm’s posture shift, every muscle tensing like a sprinter poised on starting blocks, and he heeled Aces with a double kick; the animal snorted an immediate response and rippled into a canter.

  “Gidd’up, c’mon now, boy,” Malcolm urged, keeping low, bracing over me as best he could. Tension and trepidation resonated in his voice and I followed his instructions without question, starkly aware of the difference in the horse’s rapid passage; we were not hurrying in effort to deliver a message or flee a rainstorm.

  We were being pursued.

  “Run, c’mon!” Malcolm growled, heeling Aces a second time, taking us to a full-out gallop.

  I pressed my forehead to the rough bristle of hair lining the animal’s neck, my bones clacking with the pounding of his powerful hooves, clutching hold until my fists ached. True flight now, the prairie a rippling blur on either side, choice stripped away from one second to the next. I knew without being told that my presence impeded our flight; two riders hindered even the strongest horse’s abilities. A strange popping sound, like that of ice cracking in quick bursts, met our ears; Malcolm hissed a low breath and pressed me lower.

  Guns, I realized, my twenty-first century mind sorting the sounds into sense. Oh, holy shit…

  Malcolm was behind me, his back exposed to flying bullets. And there was exactly nothing I could do.

  “C’mon, boy…” But Aces was charging at full capacity, ribs heaving, hooves thundering.

  I felt Malcolm shifting position; though I couldn’t see what was happening I knew he had extracted his own pistol, twisting sideways to fire – once, twice, three times. My ears throbbed, the rapid shots echoing my bursting heart. Aces lost ground and Malcolm spun back around, holding the gun at his right thigh, angling protectively over me. Our pursuer fired again, bullets fracturing the air with sharp cracks; he was much closer to us now.

  Malcolm exhaled a hissing breath, his right elbow jerking.

  Was he shot?!

  Frantic, I couldn’t even turn around to see if he was hurt.

  The world narrowed to a thin, jolting corridor.

  After two days of hard riding, Aces was flagging.

  As though outside my own body and watching from a short distance away, I realized, He’s going to catch us.

  I became suddenly aware that two horses flanked Aces, one to either side; my peripheral vision picked out the looming shapes. Numb and horrified, unable to blink or move or utter a sound, I could do nothing but watch as one of the men aimed a gun at us, his mouth flapping. Yelling, ordering us to stop.

  Malcolm shouted in my ear, “Hold on!”

  He yanked on the reins, slowing Aces enough that the other horses flew past us; my head jerked so hard I saw stars. With an unyielding forearm across my shoulder blades Malcolm held me down, leaning around me to fire repeatedly. Aces brayed a high-pitched whinny and Malcolm circled him sharply to the right, as though to make a U-turn, but it wasn’t enough; we had no chance. I opened my eyes in time to see two mounted horses charging us, one man aiming a pistol while the second raced near with a long, slender rifle held lengthwise; I screamed then, sharp and piercing, as he struck Malcolm’s head with its stock, knocking him backward from the saddle.

  Men shouting and cursing. Horses wheeling around, Aces rearing and squealing, reins dangling. I couldn’t stop screaming, even as I was summarily dragged from Aces, straight to the back of another horse. Fury burned across my vision, tinting everything red. I fought my captor’s one-armed hold, kicking, elbowing, breathing with fast, enraged breaths – no thought in mind except to reach Malcolm, who lay on the ground perhaps twenty feet away.

  “Hold still, you little bitch!” raged the man restraining me; he shifted, cursing, trying to hold the reins and the rifle in one hand. He bellowed to his companion, “Get to Carter ’fore he gets his piece!”

  “Malcolm!” I shouted as the second man charged toward him on horseback, gun drawn.

  Malcolm rolled sideways before leaping to a crouch and I saw the deep gash on his forehead and the wound on his arm, blood flowing at both points. My heart sank like a stone in a lake – he was hurt, separated from his gun. The man yanked his horse to a halt, the animal dancing in a tight circle with the motion; he aimed square at Malcolm’s chest and ordered, “Stay put.” Only then did he turn in his saddle to deliver orders. “Shut up that little hellcat and fetch that mount before he runs straight to Missouri!”

  I’d never experienced true brutality, stunned by the level of aggression with which I was backhanded across the jaw, plummeting from horseback to earth. I heard Malcolm’s rage as I fell, the world pitching and tilting, rising to meet my left side with a dull thud. Small black spots danced, colliding in the air before my eyes. The sky gleamed like polished tin; from my position flat on the ground, I watched as the man who’d struck me heeled his horse and took off at a clip, presumably to round up Aces High.

  The man holding a gun on Malcolm bellowed, “Not a move, Carter! I’ll shoot you dead!” He spared a glance in my direction and decided, “She ain’t hurt bad.” He chuckled, a raw, grating sound, as he added, “Yet.”

  “I’ll split your skull, Vole, I’ll gut you like a fucking hog.” Vicious with fury, I imagined how Malcolm’s eyes appeared; from my current position, I couldn’t see his face.

  I heard Ruthann’s voice in my head, the hushed, painful information she had related to us that night at Shore Leave, and thought, Vole. This is the man who shot Miles.

  Vole ignored Malcolm’s anger, addressing him with a taunting lilt. “It’s been a spell, ain’t it, Carter? You’re still fulla piss and hot air. Last I saw you, you was emptying your pistol into poor old Bill Little’s dead carcass. I been busy since then, as I’d wager you heard. Shot Miles Rawley last summer, killed the bastard clean dead with two rounds.” He paused before issuing a snorting sound of pure derision. “Got yourself another woman, looks like. I don’t s’pose you’d much like to watch while we stick it to the little hellcat once Turnbull fetches your horse.”

  Turnbull, I thought, able to place this name in context as well. Aemon Turnbull, who once tried to rape Ruthann.

  I found the strength to lift to my elbows, a metallic taste on my tongue. Malcolm knelt on the ground before Vole’s horse; at last able to make eye contact he assessed me as best he could. I wanted to speak but hadn’t regained enough breath. Something rolled across my tongue like a chipped marble; I spit and watched a molar land on the ground in a spatter of blood droplets. Before it could register that I’d lost a tooth, a dull gleam of silver on the ground caug
ht my attention and then Malcolm’s; his gun, dropped in the fall, was perhaps a body length away from my position.

  Our eyes held for an agonized heartbeat before Malcolm, with a measured lack of speed, returned his attention to Vole; from this point forward it was up to him to retain Vole’s focus and it was up to me to fetch that gun.

  Malcolm squared his shoulders, studying Vole with open defiance. “I heard how you shot Miles from a distance of a good half-mile. Ain’t a bit of cowardice in that, is there? Never mind that he’d have sent you straight to hell before you could draw, you ugly rodent.”

  Vole spit a thick plug of saliva toward Malcolm, who did not flinch.

  Keeping my belly on the ground, edging perhaps an inch, I made the first small move in the direction of the gun. Malcolm did not dare look my way. Vole was positioned with his back to me and the second man, Turnbull, had ridden after Aces; no way to judge how long Turnbull would be out of sight but I had to assume only minutes. Probably less. I crept forward another inch; I could have grabbed the gun with one good lunge, but I didn’t dare draw attention to my intent.

  “Get your sorry self on your feet, Carter. Much as I’d like to see the light fade from your eyes this very day, I got orders. Fallon wants to hang you. Said he intends to see to it you’re hung proper this time.”

  Malcolm stood, clutching his right arm near the elbow, applying pressure to his wound. I kept belly-crawling and he kept talking. “Fallon tried to hang me once before. No dice. But I figure he’ll be in hell before too long. Devil has a spot reserved, special-like, for the Yancys, I’d bet my last dollar. And one for you, Vole. You know you two’ll rendezvous there before long.”

  “Shut your goddamn mouth. You’ll be dangling from a tree by tomorrow morning and I’ll be the first to piss on your sorry corpse.”

  I was maybe eighteen inches from Malcolm’s gun. One good stretch with my right arm and it would be in my grasp; sweat burned my eyes and I spared a flickering glance toward Malcolm and Vole. In the distance, fast approaching, was the sudden vibrating thud of hoof beats.