She had to be all right. She had to be.
“We’ll find her.” Lane gripped his forearm. Firmly, but there was a quaver in his hand, and his smile lacked its usual confidence. “I daresay when we do, she will settle for nothing less than your full recovery.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know that he could have said anything even if the perfect words rested on his tongue. Lane’s face went blurry, Isaac’s behind him contorted.
The black approached again.
Did she hear voices behind her or just the night giving chase? Was that a light up ahead, through the budding trees, or a star breaking through the clouds? Not knowing, Marietta could only ignore the cramping in her side and run onward, faster, narrowly dodging trees, slapping at stray limbs, stubbing her toes countless times on roots.
Yes, it was a light, set on the next hillside—half a dozen windows shining out hope, and even lanterns twinkling their way toward it. The inn, it had to be. And it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
A crack split the air, and the pound of thunder shook her. She looked first to the heavens, but the clouds were still thinning.
The thunder increased. Hooves.
Another crack, and this time bark flew off a tree a few paces to her left. “Mari! You might as well give up!”
Dev. Not looking behind her, she prayed God would lift her and set her feet toward the light.
She had to get there. Had to find help. Had to keep her promise to Slade.
She had to live.
A gunshot echoed. A scream rent the air. High, desperate, it struck Slade right in his wound and brought him bolt upright, agony be hanged. “Yetta!”
Lane and Arnaud were already out the door, Judah and Ruby and Abigail behind them. Slade tossed aside the blanket and swung his legs to the floor. He had no shoes, no socks, and the trousers he wore were unfamiliar. Blood stained the bandage wrapped round his torso…a stain that grew as he watched.
Little fingers wove through his. “Mr. Slade, you better lay back down. You’re bleeding again, and I don’t want you to die.”
He dug up a smile for the girl. “I can’t lie back down, Rose. My Yetta’s out there, and I can’t let a bad man hurt her.”
Her big eyes solemn, she nodded. “I better help you then. You can lean on me. I’m real strong.”
He didn’t have time to argue. Marietta’s scream tore through the room again, masculine shouts following. He tried to tell himself Lane was there, her brother was there. They would save her.
Not good enough. He accepted the little one’s support and staggered up, lurched toward the door, and let her lead him down the hall. Every step felt heavier, and he had to pause halfway along and lean into a doorway.
He was glad he did when he spotted the rifle propped against the wall. Sucking in a deep breath, he reached for it and checked the chamber—loaded. “God of my end,” he murmured as he stumbled back into the hall, his vision narrowed upon the door swinging wide in the breeze, “it is my greatest, noblest pleasure to be acquainted with Thee.”
Perhaps it was just the wind whistling through the opening—or perhaps it was the touch of the Father, lending him a breath of borrowed life. He released Rose and told her to stay out of sight inside, and then he slid onto the porch and leaned against a post.
He stared at the pure horror in the yard.
A lathered horse quivered, reins dragging the mud. Lane and Arnaud both stood with their backs to him, guns drawn. Abigail had Judah and Ruby clutched to her chest, terror frozen in her eyes. And there, facing him, barely in the circle of light, stood Hughes. He held a thrashing, gnashing Marietta before him as a shield, Slade’s revolver pressed to her temple.
The pain in his chest nearly crippled him, but not where the bullet had bit. Somewhere deeper, far deeper. His Yetta—his beautiful, vibrant Yetta, fighting for her life.
“If you hurt her, you’ll be dead in a second. Let her go.” Lane’s voice sounded hard, daring. “Let her go or I will shoot you in the head here and now.”
Hughes sneered. “If your aim were that good, old man, you already would have taken the shot. How about you two put down your guns instead and we back away. I swear if either of you twitches a finger, I’ll kill her.”
Marietta kicked at his shin. “He’ll kill me anyway. Just shoot him, Granddad!”
He wouldn’t, and Hughes no doubt knew it. He wouldn’t risk hitting her, and neither would her brother. They were in a stalemate.
But they weren’t counting on Slade. If she stopped flailing for a minute, just a minute to get Hughes to relax a few precious degrees, he could slide forward and raise the rifle. It would have better aim than the pistols. More, she would react when she saw him. He knew she would, knew exactly what she would do—lunge, lurch, as frantic to reach him as he was to reach her. Maybe she’d break free, and even if she didn’t, it would move her body away from Hughes’s for a second.