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  “I’ll rip off your…fucking testicles…”

  “I will do whatever I want with you, you stubborn little bitch. You think you’re brave but you’re not. I know what you love. I know you loved Miles Rawley and that you love his family in the twenty-first century.” Confidence was so dense in Fallon’s voice it spread over my skin like syrup. Keeping me pinned, he promised, “And I will kill them all the next time I leap, I swear this to you, do you hear me?”

  Rage burst through my blood, gurgling in my ear canals. It took only a slight shift to knee his balls with every ounce of strength I possessed; I was still wearing trousers and hit him so squarely he collapsed to the side, wheezing too hard to groan. Crying and gasping I scrambled across the floor like an injured beetle – my fingers closed around the solid hardness of the poker. Gripping it like a baseball bat I surged to my feet, remembering Blythe teaching Tish and me how to place a hit in order to best disable an attacker.

  Fallon hunched on hands and knees and I swung for his head. He lifted an arm either in an attempt to shield his face or catch the weapon mid-swing and his forearm took the blow. He yelped like an animal – I heard a horrible, sickening crunch – but I swung again, determined to take him out, raising the poker above my head like an executioner’s axe. It whistled through the air and then, before my eyes, Fallon vanished. I fell forward with my enraged momentum and the poker gouged a big chunk from the plush carpet, instead.

  Patricia and I sat together on our favorite bench, one of lichen-covered stone beneath an intricately-carved grape arbor. Even in the dark heart of winter we’d found time to sit on it, scraping aside snow and speculating what the garden would look like in warmer weather. The mid-morning June sun bloomed brightly over us for the first time in what seemed like years, dusting our eyelids with pale gold. Other than her bulging pregnancy, Patricia was so slim that she appeared waifish, as though every nutrient she absorbed went straight to the baby. Violet-gray shadows decorated the fragile skin beneath her eyes.

  I told her, “You look beautiful.”

  She shook her head. “Did I not ask you to cut the shit?”

  In the span of months we’d been imprisoned together Patricia had adopted many of my expressions. I smiled at these words paired with her naturally formal tone and admitted, “You did, yes. But you really do look beautiful.”

  And she did, I was not just attempting to keep her spirits up.

  “Well, then I suppose I should thank you,” she whispered, but no sooner had she spoken than she uttered a soft groan. She grabbed my hand and directed it to the tiny foot or elbow pressing outward.

  I thought of touching Celia’s belly in a similar fashion as I whispered, “Hi, Monty.”

  Patricia murmured, “That’s your Aunt Ruthann, love.”

  I wondered constantly about Miles’s son, praying multiple times a day that Celia had reached Grant and Birdie, and remained with them. Her baby would have been born over five months ago and I prayed just as often that he’d arrived in the world under Birdie’s care. What had Celia named him? Had Celia kept him, or trusted him to Birdie and returned to Howardsville? Not knowing was yet another sharp shovel carving holes in my soul. What if I never discovered the baby’s fate? It seemed as though Patricia and I had been prisoners at the convent for decades; at times, I felt certain we would die here.

  Fear was a constant force at the back of my mind, strung like a sticky spider web; I’d forgotten a time when I was without its presence. Despite the fact that he’d not reappeared since the night in the train car when I’d tried to kill him, Fallon’s words trailed me like demons – he’d kill them all, he said of my family, and I did not doubt his capability to do just that – but were the words truth, or threats calculated to force my hand? And where the hell had he gone? Was Fallon in the twenty-first century even now, preying on them? My helplessness was infuriating; how could I hope to get a message to my sisters or the Rawleys, to any of them, when I remained trapped in both the convent and 1882? I couldn’t even get a message to anyone in this goddamn century.

  And I thought, as I did in various versions every hour or so, Please hear me, Marshall. Aunt Jilly, Tish, please hear me. Please be careful. You have to recognize the danger. He’s more dangerous than anything I’ve ever known.

  Of course I told no one other than Patricia what actually happened in Fallon’s train car that night, but according to Dredd his elder brother often left for weeks at a time, and always quite suddenly. Dredd was clueless regarding most of his family’s activities; fortunately for Patricia and me, he was also reasonable, soft-spoken, and kind. For a brief span of time last autumn, before Patricia realized her period was late, she and I lived in relative peace in our small corner of the Lake Michigan mansion; Dredd allowed us to remain in the same bedroom, only requesting Patricia dine with him in the evenings. I’d tried twice to escape the grounds but both times was escorted back inside by male servants, less kindly the second time, to our second-floor suite.

  Mr. Yancy’s orders, ma’am, I was informed, underscoring yet again that Fallon’s directives were not to be disobeyed. And here, stashed away at the Immaculate Heart of Mary, Patricia and I were trapped even more completely than we’d been in Chicago. I joked that the nuns seemed to be expecting a full-scale assault, as their garden walls were constructed of stacked stones, easily six feet high and tipped with wrought-iron spikes. Even if the nuns weren’t lurking everywhere, insidious spies wearing wimples, Patricia was in no condition to be shimmying over walls and traversing the prairie on foot to reach the nearest city, especially not during the winter months.

  Sister Marguerite, who appeared younger than the other nuns and wore a differently-styled wimple, had dared to speak with us a handful of occasions. Once she’d actually touched Patricia instead of shying away from her like the rest of the sisters; I wanted to tell them they weren’t in any jeopardy of getting pregnant by association. Marguerite had whispered, “May I?” and at Patricia’s nod, reverently rested her palms on the firm curve of Patricia’s belly. It was during our second conversation with Sister Marguerite we’d finally learned exactly where we were; Illinois, but only two miles east of the Iowa border, on the outskirts of a little town called Beaufort. Later that same night, Patricia had been wild with the knowledge we were so close to Iowa, where the Rawley and Spicer families both homesteaded.

  “Cole could be only miles away,” she’d moaned, overcome with sobbing. “But he doesn’t know we’re here!”

  “His parents intend to head west in the spring,” I’d reminded her. “Remember, Cole said that? And so did Una’s letters.”

  I had tried my best to recall every line of Una Spicer’s letters, scouring for clues; I was certain the Spicers had been in Montana Territory by 1882. And then there was the letter written by Malcolm Carter which had once fallen from a Jalesville High yearbook and into my hands. In this letter, Cole was missing and Malcolm wrote of Miles’s death. They are yet unhealed at Miles’s passing Malcolm had written, referring to Miles’s parents sometime in May of this year, 1882. Had Grant taken Miles’s body home to Iowa? Was Malcolm Carter searching even now for Cole, while Cole searched for Patricia and me? And what of Axton? Lying in the narrow bed, huddled against Patricia’s warmth through the long winter, I found my thoughts often turning to Miles. I am yet unhealed, too. I know you loved me, Miles Rawley, and I will never forget that.

  Patricia tipped her wan face to the June sunlight and whispered, “I’m so scared.”

  Usually we only spoke of these things at night, in the dark of our tomblike little room.

  As I had many times before, I vowed, “I won’t leave your side.”

  “It’s soon, Ruthie, the baby is coming soon. I can feel it.” New desperation colored her voice.

  “Are you having contractions?” I demanded in a whisper, half-rising from the bench.

  “I have been since early this morning,” she confessed breathlessly, catching at my wrist, and my heart contracted. She closed he
r eyes, exhaling through her nose. “I didn’t want to say anything yet, but they’re getting stronger. Oh Jesus, Ruthie, they’ll take him from me.”

  I cupped her belly, as much to keep my own fears in line as to alleviate hers. Only too well could I picture the nuns with their vulture-like black robes, crowded around the bed, hunched and ready to snatch the baby the second he emerged. I opened my mouth to respond when something drew our gazes abruptly to the left, in pure disbelief, as it was a sound neither of us had heard in a very long time. Other than creepy, beak-nosed Father Doherty, who preached on Sunday mornings, there was a decided lack of men at the Immaculate Heart of Mary.

  But this voice was most certainly male.

  Low and urgent, he called a second time, “Ruthie! Patricia!”

  I froze. Then I blinked.

  It was Axton.

  He was alive. Alive and standing near the lilac border only twenty feet from us, wearing a gray wool jacket and a battered straw hat, carrying a hedge clipper. I thought maybe I was hallucinating – maybe I’d lost my mind at last. Patricia whimpered, every bit as disbelieving, her face suffused with shocked heat as she stared. She tried to stand but I caught her wrist, terrified she would run to him and ruin his cover.

  Axton lifted one hand, indicating not to advance. I read the caution on his face as plainly as the extremity of his relief. He advanced casually closer, boots crunching over the crushed rock of the garden path; I couldn’t take my eyes from him, terrified he would disappear in the fashion of a mirage. Once he was no more than ten feet away, he whispered fervently, “Holy Christ, am I glad to see you two.”

  “Axton,” I breathed, gripping the stone bench with one hand and Patricia’s wrist with the other, hanging on for dear life. It was all I could do to remain sitting when I wanted to tackle him and cover his familiar face with kisses.

  “Listen,” he said, speaking quickly. “The nuns think I’m a gardener sent to replace their old one. I been sleeping in the little shed, yonder. I got in here two days ago but I haven’t been able to get close to you until now. Where do they keep you? What part of this place?”

  I indicated by pointing. “We’re in a small chamber room at the back of the main building. North side, last door on the right. They lock us in and there are no windows.”

  Axton declared, with quiet vehemence, “We’re getting you out of here, this evening when they take you to pray. Can you be ready?”

  “How?” I demanded. “Who’s ‘we?’”

  Axton looked hard into my eyes and I could sense his blazing desire to tell me something, but his self-control was extremely admirable. He only insisted, “Just be ready. This evening, at prayer, you hear me?” His gaze clung to Patricia, caressing and holding her just as his hands and arms would have; he vowed, “I’ll get you out of here, I swear to you.”

  “Axton,” Patricia whispered, and at the sound of his name on her lips, determined fire burned anew in his eyes. She said as though caught in a dream, “You’re here.”

  I repeated, “But how?”

  There came the soft rise and fall of other voices, serene and female. Ax said only, “Be ready,” and then walked away, out toward the brick courtyard where Patricia and I weren’t allowed to venture.

  “Did I just…did we just…” I pressed a hand to my thudding heart.

  Patricia’s skin was mottled with a brilliant flush that suddenly, alarmingly, drained away. I was afraid she was about to faint and hooked my arms around her shoulders. Tears washed over her cheeks.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right.” I cupped the back of her head. “Did you hear Axton? Did you see him? He’s alive!”

  She clenched the material of my shawl and struggled to draw a full breath.

  I repeated, “It’s all right. Shhh, honey, it’s all right.”

  At last Patricia nodded, to my great relief, swiping at her running nose with her knuckles. She whispered, “We shall be ready.”

  My heart was already ticking like a time bomb. I just prayed it wouldn’t go off before this evening and give us away.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  THE DAYS HAD GROWN LONGER WITH SPRING, WHICH would have been a welcome thing if we weren’t waiting so desperately for this evening’s prayer time to arrive. Neither of us was able to eat lunch and I couldn’t stop pacing our tiny room as the day drifted into late afternoon. I tried to make Patricia nap, to no avail. Her contractions remained steady and I prayed without ceasing, to every entity possibly listening, that the baby stay put until we were away from this place. I bundled our extra dresses and underskirts just like I would have a pair of sleeping bags, including the binding cloths I had been given to use during my period. We each had one pair of shoes and we were both wearing them. Far too restless to sit still, I braided Patricia’s hair and pinned it up for her.

  Maybe seventy thousand times since his appearance, Patricia had said, “Axton is alive. He came for us.”

  I shelved all worry over the fact that she was in love with Axton and carrying Cole’s baby; it was a trifling concern just now. I replied, “Of course he did. And Cole must be with him. And maybe Grant? Malcolm Carter? Or one of the other Rawley brothers?”

  “What will I say to Cole? What will he think…”

  “He’ll be so grateful to see you he won’t be anything but overjoyed. I promise.”

  “But…”

  “Patricia, I love you dearly but I can’t deal with what Cole is thinking. At this moment I couldn’t give less of a fuck!” My anxiety had morphed to irritation.

  “Ruthann!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Patricia indicated the clothing I’d tied into travel bundles. “How shall we carry our belongings with us when we are simply attending prayer? Shall that not appear suspicious?”

  “Maybe you have a better idea?”

  She rolled her eyes, reminding me more than ever of Tish. “It was a sincere effort, nonetheless.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  At long last the evening bells resounded, our only indicator of passing time since we couldn’t see the sun from our room.

  “I’m going to explode,” I groaned. I felt like I’d spent the day running uphill, exhausted and drained, even though my only physical exertion had been pacing. My chest grew alternately hot, then cold. Patricia lay on her side on the cot, watching me expectantly, and I prayed yet again, Please, Monty, stay put. Stay put until we can get the hell out of this place.

  She whispered, “Axton was here, wasn’t he? Or did I simply dream that?”

  I stopped my feverish pacing and knelt beside her. I felt terrible for my earlier bad mood. “He was here. He said they’re getting us out of here.” I tried for a smile. “If anyone can convincingly lie to a bunch of nuns, it’s Ax.”

  “Thank God for him,” Patricia whispered, her eyes wet with tears as she clutched my hands. “My sweet Axton. He is completely without guile. Of course they shall believe every word he speaks.”

  I felt hysterical laughter pushing upward from my ribcage; I recognized the desire to lose control, whether through laughter or wild sobbing. Hold it together. Now more than ever, you have to hold it together.

  “You make him sound like a little boy. He’s older than you are.”

  She whispered, “But you and I have each gained a year in this place.” She meant our birthdays, as we’d each celebrated one – though ‘celebrate’ was definitely the wrong word. Patricia turned nineteen in April and I’d turned twenty-four in January.

  “Yes, we’re getting ancient,” I said.

  Patricia’s face went suddenly blank. My horrified gaze flew to her belly, which changed shape before my eyes, visibly tightening in an unmistakable sign of progressing labor. She released a half-moaning gasp and tried to sit. “That one was strong…”

  Fuck, I thought. Fucking shit.

  But I said, “I’m right here.”

  Patricia groaned and then sucked a sharp breath.

  I gripped her shoulders. “Not
now. Oh Jesus Christ, not now. Oh Patricia, oh fuck…”

  She gritted her teeth, face ashen and her eyes inward-looking, drawn into wordless communication with the baby.

  “Honey, we can’t let them know you’re in labor.”

  “I know,” she half-whispered, half-grunted. “I know. I shall die before letting them see my son is coming.”

  No sooner had she spoken than a light knock sounded on our door, as it always did at this time of day, when Sister Beatrice (Bitch-face) came to unlock our room and walk us to the chapel, where she would wait while we “prayed.” I’d long wondered if the sister was being punished, maybe doing some sort of penance, because she was not allowed to join the others at breakfast or dinner until after accomplishing this twice-daily duty.

  Of course Patricia and I were only allowed to eat in the secrecy of our room. Sister Beatrice drove me crazy, never speaking, hardly acknowledging we were human. I wanted to shove her nose backward into her expressionless face, if for no other reason than to cause a reaction in her, but I stifled this cruel urge as I heard the familiar sound of locks being disengaged. I wondered in which pocket of her black robe she hid the keys.

  “Patricia,” I hissed.

  “I am well,” she insisted, composing her face. Sweat created a glistening sheen on her forehead and upper lip, but she lifted her chin and smoothed her hair. When the door swung inward, revealing Sister Beatrice, Patricia met the sister’s bland expression with one of her own.

  I thought I might be experiencing the first stages of a heart attack as I tucked Patricia’s arm in the crook of mine and helped her stand. She kept her face neutral as we followed Sister Beatrice down the dim stone corridor and then outside, where the evening air embraced us like an old friend. A thin layer of fleecy clouds scattered the gold of the lowering sun and with extreme effort I kept my gaze ahead, rather than relenting to the desperate urge to scan the courtyard for signs of Axton.

  What if we imagined him?

  What if –

  Sister Beatrice held the chapel door for us. Patricia gripped my arm and I could hear the slight strain of her breathing, but she walked without a hint of discomfort. The nun took up her usual place beside the door, letting it close behind us. Once relatively alone, encased in the quiet peace of the chapel, Patricia stalled and bent forward. She was sweating hard now, trickles slipping over her temples.