When he touched the barrel to her back to keep her moving, she didn’t dare wonder how he knew where she kept her bags. “You can remove the gun, darling. And you could have mentioned your mother was coming as chaperone. That would have resolved my objection.”
If only her objection were so simple.
As soon as they stepped into the small chamber, he pulled a valise from the shelf and tossed it to the floor. “When you are falling asleep by my side tonight, we can laugh about it. For now, indulge me.”
By his side? She turned to face him, gun or no gun. “Pardon?”
He chuckled into her outrage. “Two minutes, darling. Don’t bother with dresses—we will purchase you new ones when we get there.”
With trembling hands she pulled items at random off shelves and from drawers and stuffed them into the valise. Her hairbrush had no sooner joined the chaos within the case than he slammed it closed, latched it, and nudged her from the room with the pistol again. “Time is up.”
He didn’t even slow as they passed his mother’s room. He just called out, “I’m leaving.” Marietta heard harried steps behind her but didn’t look around lest she stumble on the stairs.
Two sets of steps, though. Dev must have noted the same thing, for he glared over his shoulder. “I said not to involve the slaves, Mother.”
She huffed. “Well, I could hardly pack on my own, and I cannot get along without Jess. She must come with us.”
Dev’s lips pressed to a thin line. He paused on the second-floor landing and turned to face the two older women. He raised his pistol, probably set to wave it at them as he had at—
Bang.
Screams. Mother Hughes’s, Jess’s, and given the burning in her throat, her own. The servant crumpled to the stairs, clutching her leg. Crimson soaked through her skirt.
Marietta’s stomach heaved upward, and her vision blurred. Voices clamored and clanged, but she couldn’t unravel them from each other. Couldn’t tell which way was up. Couldn’t…couldn’t…
A blast of wind blew some of the cobwebs away, but that made her stomach churn more. Dev was putting her on her feet, outside, beside his carriage, and she had no recollection of getting there.
“I am sorry you had to see that, darling.” He brushed her hair from her face with one hand and tossed her valise into the coach with the other. “I know how you detest the sight of blood. But she will likely survive, so calm yourself.”
Calm herself?
Mother Hughes was crying. Farther away, someone screamed her name. Barbara—she must have heard the gunshot.
Her vision cleared and latched onto a spot of shining gold. It took her a second to realize it was a small head—Elsie’s, and the girl stood nearly under Barbara’s window, partially concealed by the hedge.
Marietta opened her mouth, but she daren’t try to answer Barbara, not with Dev’s finger still on the trigger and too many targets about.
Elsie pulled her thumb out of her mouth, pointed both fingers, and then made the letter D and shook it. Where are you going?
“Enough, Mother. Mari, up you go.”
Lord, let her understand and remember! Discreetly as she could, she made the sign for Dev and two fingers along the matching two from the other hand for train. She managed to add a quick Tell Daddy before Dev lifted her into the carriage.
Thirty-One
Slade paced to the window again, worry’s teeth gnawing at him. Perhaps a scrap of peace would have been instilled by the steady stroke of Mrs. Lane’s pencil over her paper, but her husband’s pacing, mirroring Slade’s, negated it.
He had detoured to the telegraph office, had sent a wire to Pinkerton. Can’t come tonight, he had written, their agreed-upon code for when the KGC was acting. Attending the theater at Ford’s with friends.
Once he arrived at the Lane residence, he had explained the situation to the old man. His promise to help, though, hadn’t relieved the anxiety building like a thunderhead.
Marietta should be here by now. “Where is she?”
“Helping Barbara with Cora, no doubt,” Mrs. Lane said from her desk.
Slade shot a glance to Lane, who exhaled and shook his head. “I don’t know, sweet. I have a bad feeling.”
Mrs. Lane’s pencil stilled, and she spun on her chair to face them. “Then why are you still here?”
“I thought at first it was unease over the situation in general, but…” The old man slapped his leg and spun to the door, face set. “You’re right. Come, Oz. Waiting will accomplish nothing. If she is on her way, we’ll pass her along the street.”
Unless she took side streets to avoid detection, which was why they hadn’t immediately headed back to intercept her. But Slade followed Lane across the room. If they missed her somehow, her grandmother would tell her where they went.
Walker’s grandfather had horses waiting and handed them the reins with a grim face. “You need me, you let me know,” he said to Lane.
“As always.” The old man swung into the saddle with the ease of a youth. “Be praying, Henry.”
“As always.”