We burst into the morning sunshine.
A small crowd has gathered on the opposite side of the street, and so the act resumes. Uncle with an arm over my shoulder, for I’m a sick, troubled girl. A hand gripping tightly about my wrist in case I get a notion to run.
The spectators watch as Uncle escorts me toward his steed. One woman clutches the front of her dress in relief. Another has a look of pity in her eyes. They are all concerned for me, pleased to see me home. Uncle’s stories have spread like wildfire over the dry plains.
I look the part, too, I realize. My dress is far from clean. Reece’s blood still stains the collar. My hair is greasy and unwashed, hanging stringy and wild around my face. In hindsight, it’s a wonder Mr. Marion even listened to a word I had to say. He likely printed a piece about my kidnapping on Uncle’s behalf after all, citing my poor mental state and the reward that would be given for my safe return home.
Uncle Gerald heaves me onto his horse. I could scream and writhe for the show, but I go willingly. The more cooperative my entrance, the less adamantly townsfolk will cling to stories that I am unwell, and the less they will miss me when I disappear again. For I have no intention of staying longer than necessary.
Uncle’s knees hold me in place, his arms imprisoning me as he grabs the reins of his mare, plus those of the sorrel. He rides his horse harder than necessary, and because I’ve a bad seat in the saddle, I jolt and bump against him. It is the worst bit of contact yet—crueler, somehow, than his grabbing my arm or wrestling me onto the horse. I need him, the support he provides, or I’ll fall from the saddle.
I do not want to need him.
When we arrive at the house, a curtain at the bay window is drawn aside and, like an eye blinking, quickly drops into place. Then the front door flies open and Mother stumbles into view.
“Charlotte, how could you?” she screeches. “Why would you come back? Why!”
She has deteriorated in my absence. Her skin has gone ashy and her hair lost its shine. Wrinkles around her eyes seem to have spread. She looks like the unhinged woman my uncle paints her to be.
I’ve been gone too long. I never should have left.
“Lillian, get in the house,” Uncle Gerald orders.
Ignoring him, she races forward, gathers me in her arms. She hugs me to her chest and I breathe in the scent of her. She is softer than a pillow, more familiar than any bed. Her hands grip my cheeks, and she moves my face back so she can look at me properly. Tears cling to the corners of her eyes.
“You foolish girl. You’ve only made things worse.”
She pulls me nearer once more.
“I have a plan,” I whisper into her hair.
“Lillian,” Uncle barks.
She slinks to his side, takes his hand. And that’s when I see it—the ring on her finger.
It is not the one she wore to honor her vows to my father, but a thinner, duller band. It is the shackle my uncle has used to bind her.
They have already wed.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
* * *
Reece
When I wake in the morning, Vaughn’s missing.
“We gotta find her,” I say, palms pressed to the kitchen table. Kate’s clutching a mug of hot tea like her life depends on it while Jesse checks the simmering porridge. “She don’t know what she’s doing, and she ain’t fit for it.”
“She’s fit for just ’bout anything,” Kate says. She sets her mug down and starts unfurling fingers. “She tried to shoot you on the train. She turned Rose’s men over in Wickenburg. She weathered yer ill-treatment in the coach till she could make a run for it. Then she came to me looking for a gunslinger. And nearly shot you again in my kitchen.” Kate moves on to her second hand. “She caught Jesse entering the clearing while we slept.” Another finger. “She wiggled outta a bind with a bounty hunter. Should I keep going?”
“Nah, I get yer point.”
“I reckon that girl might not be able to shoot like you, but she sure as hell’s cunning enough to do damn near anything she sets her mind to. Besides, you don’t even know where she went.”
“I’m just worried, all right? What if she went to find a gunslinger again, only it pans out worse than last time? Besides, ain’t you guys bothered by her up and vanishing, that she might get spotted or give us away somehow?”
Jesse stops stirring the porridge. “Why’d she be spotted? You said you weren’t followed, and it ain’t like there’s folk in these mountains to spot her tracks.”
I take a long slug of coffee. Kate’s right ’bout Vaughn being resourceful. She’s proved it several times over, and I don’t know why I feel this urge to run after her. But if she’s gone to confront her uncle without any backup, I pray she’s got a solid plan. If she don’t, there’s a good chance I won’t never see her again. I mighta said some harsh words last night, but that don’t mean I wanted her gone permanently. Hell, I woke desperate to talk to her, to tell her I meant what I said, but I wish I’d gone about it differently. Kept my tone even. Made my point without insulting her so boldly. I get right furious when folks assume things ’bout me—presume to know my entire life story—and that’s exactly what I did to her.
“You positive you don’t want payment for tomorrow’s train job?” Jesse asks.
“Right positive,” I say. “But speaking of gold . . . It ain’t squirreled away here at the hideout, is it?”
“Not knowing something can be a blessing,” Kate says pointedly.
“I reckon it’s here. Gold ain’t an easy thing to transport, and you’d wanna keep it in a safe place, not the claim you call home in Prescott. Maybe it’s buried out back or folded into the floorboards or hiding between horse stalls.”
Jesse slops some porridge into my bowl. “You got a mind made for thievery and stealing. It’s like yer supposed to be an outlaw or something.”
“Here, read this,” Kate says, tossing a clothbound book on the table. “You oughta keep yer mind busy, and Charlotte seemed to be enjoying that the other night.”
I glance at the cover. Around the World in Eighty Days.
There ain’t no time for reading, but to appease the both of ’em, I tuck the book into the large interior pocket of my jacket.
Later that afternoon, Kate finds me while I’m seeing to the horses. Jesse and I ride for the P&AC early tomorrow, and we can’t risk a loose shoe or lamed horse.
“Why you so curious ’bout the gold, Reece?”
I lower the horse’s leg and brush my palm ’long her flanks. “No reason.”
“You seem to care where we keep it.”
“I don’t,” I insist.
Kate rolls her eyes and settles awkwardly onto the saddle stand. Her belly’s somehow grown even larger in the past week, and I ain’t sure she’s gonna be able to get back up without help.
“You remind me of Jesse a bit, when he were younger,” she says. “You got this giant black cloud of regret and guilt hovering over you, and if you don’t let it rain here and there, it’s gonna part one day and you’ll drown in the downpour.”