“But he’s my cousin.” I say again. “And I’m only sixteen. I’m too young to marry.”
“You’re too young to be a journalist also, nor are you suited to become one, ever.” He folds his hands over his chest. “Your place is alongside my son, not taking an educated man’s job by playing reporter.”
I’m so livid I could scream. Instead, I say as evenly as I can manage, “I’m not marrying Paul. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find the sheriff.”
As I stand, Uncle Gerald draws a pistol from the folds of his jacket and aims it at Mother. Time seems to slow. The world narrows.
“I urge you to reconsider,” he says.
“All right, yes,” I say immediately. I don’t need time to deliberate. There is only one answer. “I’ll do it.”
I feel as though I’ve been slapped in the face, as though the floor has given way beneath me. I always anticipated Uncle playing me against Mother. I don’t know why I didn’t consider that he might hold her hostage to control me. This is everything we sought to avoid. I should have stayed in Yuma as Mother demanded. If only I’d listened, this wouldn’t be happening.
“Enough of this, Gerald,” Mother snaps. “Charlotte has the world ahead of her, or as much as society will allow; don’t steal that away. Let it be us instead.”
“Mother, you can’t.”
“I can, and I will. Do not tell me what I’ll do.”
“So you accept?” Uncle Gerald says, smiling. Mother nods. “Splendid! I will make arrangements straightaway.” He holsters his pistol.
Mother pushes out of her chair and heads for the hallway.
“Lillian?” Uncle Gerald calls after her. There is a formidable air of warning to his tone.
“I’m going to see Mr. Douglas, in regards to business matters,” she says pointedly.
“You’ll be interested to know that Mr. Douglas’s business is now mine. I have arranged a deal with him. Fifteen percent stake in the Gulch Mine Company in exchange for his cooperation. You see, I have expressed concerns over your mental health, and he has garnered documentation reflecting such a diagnosis. Should you act rashly, say, by involving the sheriff in this matter, it would be a pity. I’d hate to be the one to alert authorities that your madness drove you to put a bullet in your own child.”
For what feels like an eternity, Mother stands there, a palm on the office door, frozen like a statue, her eyes on me.
Finally, she blinks. Her face snaps up to address Uncle. “Thank you, Gerald,” she says, “for illustrating so clearly why my husband was wise to never make you a partner in his endeavors. It pains me that I have to reward his astute observations by marrying you and allowing for what he sought to avoid. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need fresh air. To clear my troubled head.”
She pulls the door shut with more force than necessary. A painting on the wall shudders.
“The logic works multiple ways, Charlotte,” Uncle says to me. “For instance, no one would be surprised to learn that your mother has brought a bullet to her own temple. So tread carefully. It would be a shame for you to lose both parents in such a short span of time.”
His words are spoken like a Sunday sermon, vehement, indisputable. He means it. He will kill me, or her. It doesn’t matter which, so long as he gets his way.
How foolish to believe that bad men would outwardly declare themselves as such. How painstakingly naive to think they would wear bandannas over their faces and ride only with equally vile creatures. Some bad men, it turns out, can wear smart business suits and fine silk scarves and be respected within the community. Some look like your uncle.
“I suggest you clean yourself up,” he adds. “For all I know, insanity plagues the women of your family, and that disheveled, barefoot ensemble is not helping your case.”
Chapter Eighteen
* * *
Reece
I come to in the barn with a sharp headache. My nose is swollen, partially obscuring my vision, but it ain’t too banged up to ignore the scent of hay and horse shit.
“Tell me how you got it.”
I search out the voice. The pregnant woman’s leaning into the wall ’cross the way, the barrel of her rifle resting ’gainst her shoulder. Outside the barn, the setting sun casts a blanket of twilight over her claim. I move to stand, only to find my ankles bound with rope. My wrists’re secured, too.
“That scar,” the woman continues, nodding at my arm. “Tell me.”
“Why—you ain’t certain you got the right guy? Don’t wanna get shortchanged on the bounty, huh?”
“Boy, I don’t got a need for money, but you sure as hell got a need for some sense. A person don’t shoot you dead when they know you’s wanted, and you refuse to answer their simple questions? You got a thirst for dyin’?”
“Some days.”
She barks out a laugh, then puts a hand to her lower back to brace ’gainst the weight of her belly. The babe’s gotta be coming soon. Maybe days off, or a couple weeks. Some mama she’s gonna make. I’ve known her all of two minutes and am certain she don’t got a nurturing bone in her body. Even now, her eyes are hooded, dark and uneasy, like she’s bent on distrusting the whole damn world.
“I’d rather kill you than involve the Law,” she tells me. “All the latter’ll do is invite the rest of yer boys my way, and I ain’t too keen on that.”
“So crank that lever and be done with it. I know you figured me to be the Rose Kid by now.”
“Yeah, I know who you are, Reece Murphy, that’s true. I also know that Rose only puts that mark on his victims.”
“Interesting theory.”
“It ain’t a theory. Rose put that carving in my father’s forehead. He also did it to my husband’s brother. He don’t do that to folk he rides with. So I know you ain’t a Rider by choice. At least you weren’t originally.”
“You know Luther Rose?” I say, doubtful.
“I knew Waylan. Like most folk, I didn’t know there were another Rose waiting to take the reins till talk of train strikes started gracing the papers.”
Her knowledge ’bout Waylan Rose . . . this claim that matches Vaughn’s description . . . This woman’s shaping up to be the very same from Vaughn’s story.
“Say, yer name ain’t Thompson, is it?”
“It’s Colton,” she says. “Now talk, before I kill you outta boredom.”
She means it. She’ll pull that trigger if’n I don’t oblige. She ain’t gonna believe a word I say, but I’m outta options.
“I did work on the Lloyds’ farm,” I say reluctantly. “That bit of the story’s true. But the Rose Riders raided it one afternoon, and there weren’t a thing I could do to stop it. I were fourteen at the time, ’bout three months from a birthday. Mr. Lloyd had sold a herd of cattle just that morning, and they took the cash before stringing up the whole family. I don’t know if they got roses carved in ’em too. I was too busy trying to wrestle free of my own branding.”
“And why’d Rose stop his work on yer arm? Why ain’t you dead like the others?”