The sun is high overhead. Little William’s been born on a beautiful January day. The same day, perhaps, that his parents will finally win their freedom from the Rose Riders. My pulse kicks a little, thinking of Reece and Jesse, and I strain my hearing, as if it were possible to catch a locomotive’s whistle from where I stand.
I submerge the bucket in the tank, heave it out. Halfway to the house, Mutt’s tail goes ramrod straight. He turns for the trail, growling.
I freeze. This time I can make something out after all. But it is not a train whistle.
Hooves.
My pulse kicks harder.
It’s a half-day ride to Banghart’s, where they planned to board the train. They can’t be back so quickly. And if they were, Mutt wouldn’t be growling.
I feel the wrongness down in my bones.
I don’t wait to see the horse or the rider atop it. I drop the bucket, water splashing, and sprint for the house.
The first gunshot screams when I’m almost to the stoop. It sends dirt flying near my ankles. The next bullet takes a bite from the wooden step.
Mutt bolts inside, and then I’m scrambling through the entrance too, slamming the door behind me. Lunging for Kate’s Winchester, which Jesse had moved to its holding place above the entrance before leaving. It’s kept loaded, so I crank the rifle’s lever, and then shove the barrel out the window.
Lord, do I wish Kate had let me shoot at targets, not just practice form and aim.
I sweep the clearing and find the shooter.
He’s dismounted near the tank and is standing behind his horse for shelter. As he leads the steed closer, step by step, a beam of early-afternoon light catches his pistol. It’s aimed at the house.
Chapter Forty-Three
* * *
Reece
I bolt from the flaming table. No sooner have I set foot on the landing beyond the dining car than a bullet nicks the door frame I just squeezed through.
“Don’t shoot him!” Rose shouts. “Just—”
The door slams shut, cutting off his words.
Just catch him . . . follow him?
Prolly both. He needs me alive to find Jesse, and that’s all that’s keeping me breathing.
There’s a ladder running ’longside the door to the next car. I take hold of a rung and start climbing. As I’m heaving myself onto the top of the car, Barrera grabs my ankle.
“Come on, Murphy,” he croons from below. “We only wanna talk.”
I kick with my free leg, and my boot connects with his chin. He goes stumbling outta sight. I don’t waste time seeing if he fell from the train or merely clattered to the landing. I run.
Or rather, I try to.
Soon as I stand, the wind becomes a roar, a gale force pushing at my back, making my feet wanna move too quickly. My hat nearly lifts off my head. I clamp a hand down on it and crouch low, shuffling toward the rear of the train.
Chino Valley races by in the corners of my vision—pale yellows and browns. I keep my sights on the next few feet of railcar ahead, otherwise my stomach twists in knots.
“Murphy!” Barrera yells behind me.
He didn’t fall then. Shame.
I run, and when I reach the end of the passenger car, I leap to the next. The whole of the P&AC line seems to be an oldfangled, barely pieced together mess, so I prolly shouldn’t be shocked to find the roof of the second passenger car more sloped than the first. But I am. My boots connect with the pitched plane, and my right ankle buckles with surprise. At the same moment, there’s a slight bend in the rail, and I’m thrown from my feet. I hit the roof on my side, but can’t find purchase. The momentum of the turning train’s got a hold on me, and I roll toward the edge of the roof, arms flailing, fingers grasping.
I find nothing but slick wood. My legs go over the edge. I hear the scream of air curving ’round the train cars, feel the tug of gravity . . .
And my hand closes down on the lip of the car’s roof.
I cling there, swaying. One boot knocks ’gainst the passenger car window below. I use it to my advantage, pushing and kicking off the glass. I get an elbow onto the roof, then another. But now my feet ain’t able to kick off the window no more and I’m stuck hanging, the fight draining from me. Heat laces through my arms. Something digs into my ribs—the book Kate gave me, still tucked inside my jacket. My palms are sweaty, and the surface beneath them slick. I can’t hold on much longer. Just as my elbow begins to slide out—right as I’m bracing for what’s sure to be a deadly fall—hands clamp down on my wrists.
Barrera.
He drags me to safety and slams me down onto the roof in one violent motion. My head hits with an ugly crack. My vision wobbles, and then my breath cuts off as he grabs my throat.
He shoulda let me fall. God, I wish he let me fall.
With a spare hand, he draws his pistol and presses the barrel to the underside of my chin.
“Rose said not to shoot,” I choke out.
“Maybe I didn’t have a choice.” Barrera cocks the weapon. “Maybe you shot first.”
The wind screams in my ears. The air smells like smoke and coal. Barrera drops the pistol to see to strangling me with both hands.
“I can’t . . . breathe. Barrera, I can’t—”
“Diaz said you strangled Hobbs. How could you do that?”
I kick and flail beneath him, scrape at his fingers, try reaching for my holstered gun. I don’t got the energy, and he won’t let up.
“How could you do that to yer own crew?”
I grapple for his pistol, forgotten somewhere near my head.
“How?”
I ain’t even gasping no more, I’m plain out of air. My lips form shapes ’round nothing. This is how I’m gonna die. Jesse will be all right, at least. That is, till he returns to the house and finds whatever remains of Kate and Charlotte and the baby. God, the baby.
I’m gonna die right here with Barrera’s hands on my neck and the deep blue sky framing his angry, murderous face. Maybe this is exactly what I deserve.
There’s a gunshot, and Barrera falls away, relinquishing his grip on me. I cough and sputter, sit up. Barrera’s unblinking eyes stare up at the heavens. Jesse stands at the other end of the car, pistol smoking. He just saved me. I’m trying to figure how he appeared outta nowhere like an angel, when I remember he boarded the very car we’re now standing atop. He was supposed to be making his way back to the cargo car, but he coulda heard the struggle, maybe even saw my boots dangling outside the window.
“What the hell happened?” he shouts.
“Rose lied ’bout—”
There’s movement behind Jesse. A hand coming into view, clinging to the top of the ladder. Then a face—Crawford—and his pistol.
“Jesse, duck!”
He does—just barely in the nick of time—and Crawford’s shot sails over his head. I fire back, and that’s when Crawford puts it together. I ain’t on their side. I’ve joined with the enemy, and he’s outnumbered on this roof. He slides down the ladder.
“Get off the train!” I yell to Jesse, and I dart past him and follow Crawford. “Get off the train and go back to Kate!”
“What?”
“Just do it, Jesse. They’re in trouble.”