Echoes (44 page)

Smith took a step to the table. Craig reached out as if to stop him, but it was too late. Too late.

Smith cursed under his breath as he lifted the map with blunt fingers. He stared at it, looked at Craig, then back at the map. His other hand snaked out and lifted the tax records. And then he saw the safe. The lid was shut, but not locked. It popped open when he touched the latch. When his head snapped up, the expression on his face and the coldness in his flat eyes, broke through the fog and fear. The labored breath he took hissed and hard dark beads of anger formed in the vortex of his glare.

"What's going on here?" Smith demanded.

"Nothing," Tess said, too quickly.

Craig moved in on her again and put a shielding arm around her shoulders. "It's okay, Tess. Everything is going to be alright."

Smith's attention honed to the protective hold Craig had placed on her and the viciousness of his look made her want to scream. He no longer seemed to care about the answer to his question. Suddenly he slammed his fist down on the tabletop. The picture of Jesus bounced up and clattered down. In the other room Caitlin jumped.

"You think you're going to double cross me?" Smith said, staring at Craig. "You dumb son of a bitch. You think you can pull a fast one on
me
? Christ almighty, if it wasn't for me, one of your gambling buddies would have fed you to the bears months ago. You get that? I'm what's standing between bear food and prison."

The ringing in Tess's ears grew louder and louder, only now she realized it wasn't ringing. It was screaming, screaming from the past as it tried to punch through and yank her back. But she couldn't let it. The kitchen flickered in the shadowy after-light as she fought the power and fear.

The sheriff was red-faced with fury. He grabbed the edge of the table and flipped it over with a crash of splintering wood. In two steps he'd lunged forward and planted a beefy hand on Craig's chest and shoved him back against the counter. Tess took the opportunity to move away.

"You stupid
goddamsonofabitch
!" he repeated, his soft voice contradicted his violent expression. "Did you think you could screw me? Are you really that stupid? I've been covering your ass from the first step and now you think you can fuck with
me
?"

Molly's screams split the sounds in Tess's mind as Smith reached for his gun. His fingers curved around the grips as the burning pressure of Molly's overworked lungs filled Tess's chest. She tried to run forward, to reach Caitlin before the backlash of black, but her limbs were too heavy. She couldn't move. She heard the soft
fwush
as Smith's gun cleared the holster over the terrified screams of women and children as they ran between the schooners and the assault of fighting men. From the kitchen, she saw Caitlin standing just inside the door. Her eyes were wide with terror. She reached out, but it was too late. Tess was already vanishing, already stepping through the threshold. But in the last second, the tenuous fear, the elusive realization snapped into focus.

Run
, she mouthed to Caitlin.

Caitlin shook her head, staring with terror.

Caitlin, RUN!

She shouted with her silence, using her eyes to convey the message. Swallowing, Caitlin took a step backwards, toward the door.

The past churned like a twister around her. Molly sprinted into the center of hell as Tess stared down the barrel of Smith's gun.

"You're blowing it," Craig shouted. "She doesn't know anything. She found it. For Christ's sake, what the hell are you doing?"

"What I've been doing all along. Cleaning up after you."

The cries from Molly's world exploded around her, drowning out the sound of Smith pulling the trigger, obliterating the crash of her own body slamming into the wall.

Chapter Forty-Nine

From all around, gunfire blasted the night. Molly darted out from the protection of the wagons and ran blindly, thinking only of reaching Arlie and Mrs. Imogene. An arrow slammed into the wagon just behind her with an explosion of splintering wood that added to the deafening roar of violence. There were no more than thirty men, but locked in battle they'd somehow doubled again and again until it seemed like hundreds of men and thousands of shots fired.

Tucking her head, she ran blindly. The Tate's wagon was just ahead, but there was no sign of Mrs. Imogene or Arlie. Praying that they'd hidden and were safe, she rounded the other side and ran hard into Brodie. Stunned, she staggered back. She had one split second to realize the collision was not an accident before the flash of his long hunting knife glinted and he lunged.

Molly screamed as she stumbled backwards and changed course as the tips of his fingers clawed the back of her dress. Sweat streamed down her face and the smoke stung her eyes. Gunfire cracked over her head and the hot whoosh of the burning wagons scorched her skin as she raced through camp, caught between the warring instincts of survival and the need to find Arlie and protect him.

Her indecision gave Brodie the advantage he needed. He grabbed her from behind and jabbed with his knife just as she whirled and pushed. The blade sank between her ribs but she felt only rage. She twisted, kicked and scratched, managing to leverage his arm to her mouth and bite down as hard as she could. His shout mingled with the bitter taste of blood and the pounding urgency that thrust her away and back into the melee.

Everything became fuzzy then, as if seen and felt through a fine layer of muslin.

Arlie's scream pierced her disorientation and turned her in time to see him bolt from the shelter of a wagon.

"No, go back," she cried, but her voice was lost in the clamor. She stumbled toward him, refusing to allow her legs to buckle. She couldn't focus and her ribs felt as if they were on fire. Each step shot pain straight through her.

Arlie's face was bright red and he was sobbing hysterically as he dodged the fighting men and panicked animals. The oxen surged to the other side of their makeshift corral and broke free. Suddenly, a horse and rider loomed in front of Molly. She swerved to the side, narrowly avoiding colliding with them. Like a nightmare vision, the mounted Indian lifted a weapon, waved it at her and spun away.

She was on her feet again in an instant, running to the last place she'd seen Arlie. But a band of fighters had come between them. As she pushed forward, unearthly cries pierced the rumble and brought it to a crescendo.

It hurt to breathe, hurt to think. She didn't dare look back. Didn't dare give in to the terror that threatened to cripple her. She heard curses flung at the Indians, violent cries hurled at the Whites while gunfire seemed to come from everywhere at once. The chilling sounds of mayhem turned her hot, then cold.

There seemed to be fire all around yet through the smoke she saw a small huddled shape. Arlie. He'd crouched down in the heart of the battle and wrapped his arms around his head.

She charged into the clearing, through the madness that stood in her way. But with each pounding step, came snatches of terror. There was Arlie, just ahead. There on the left, the Indian on horseback. An arrow whizzed past her, someone screamed, Molly tripped, hit the ground and scrambled back to her feet, ignoring the pain and the warmth spreading from the wound Brodie had inflicted on her. She had to get to Arlie. She saw him, not far now but the Indian loomed just a breath away from him. And then suddenly everything was closer, faster, hitting her like gunfire.

The Indian on horseback reared up, the horse's hooves slashing the air over Arlie's head before they came down, missing him by inches. The Indian let loose a cry of rage and pain that reverberated through her. He held something up and with horror Molly realized it was the body of the naked little boy she'd seen playing by the Indian's camp earlier. Blood oozed from a ghastly hole in the boy's head. The Indian flung the body across his horse's neck. In one swift action, he scooped Arlie up on the horse and spun around and away.

Molly screamed Arlie's name and the boy answered with a cry of terror.

She ran after him, pushing her legs to move faster than the speeding horse, but it was no use.

"
Arlie!
" she shrieked.

Her lungs felt like they would explode and her left side had gone numb, but still she kept running. Reason told her to stop, to find Adam, but reason didn't drive her. She could still see the Indian's horse and Arlie's legs writhing with terror. If she could see him, there was still hope.

Chapter Fifty

Grant didn't wait for Hector to make a decision. Though faint, it was unmistakable. A gunshot—and the report had come from the direction of Tori's house.
Tess.
Acting without thought, Grant jerked free of Hector's hold, throwing a shoulder down and into Carl's midsection as he went. Dodging away, he opened up and ran, his one hand still encased in the silver bracelet. The loose end of the cuff swung wildly, striking him with glancing blows that hurt like hell.

He heard Hector shouting,
Stop, stop or he’d shoot.
Grant doubted the deputy had the balls to shoot a fleeing man in the back right up until the first bullet whizzed past his ear. Still, he didn't hesitate, didn't pause as he raced to the split rail fence and launched himself over. He dropped into a fluid roll that saved him from a second bullet but earned him another hard whack, this time in the head, from the loose handcuff. He was on his feet and moving toward Midnight. A horse without brakes. She was the best chance he had. The horse danced back in surprise at the suddenness of his movements, but she'd been in as many movies as he had and was trained to ride through gunfire and mayhem. She, at least, didn't know it was for real this time.

Grant grabbed two fistfuls of mane as he swung onto her bare back and spurred her with his heels. There would be no second chance, no director to call cut and shoot the scene again. He was in for life and he held on.

He heard another gun shot a half second before a bullet tore through his shoulder. He looked at the red stain on his shirt with a surprise that bordered ridiculous. Of course he'd been shot. He was an escaping murderer.

But he couldn't live with another death on his shoulders. The guilt of it had nearly destroyed him once. If he had to face it again, it would succeed.

As he galloped past the stunned Hector, he looked down the barrel of a gun pointed right at his head. It was too late to do anything but pray.

Chapter Fifty-One

Molly had cleared the ring of wagons and now only moonlight guided her. The dark shadows absorbed everything but the sound of her footsteps pounding and her ragged gulps of air. She was afraid to look down at the throbbing stab wound, afraid that what she saw would immobilize her.

The Indian was no longer in sight, but she could make out the prints from his horse and she followed them. Gradually her steps slowed though her mind still raced ahead with Arlie. And then she was walking, gasping with frustration as her will urged her faster than her body could go.

She had no idea how long she'd been running, how far she'd come or where she was. When she glanced back there was no sign of the wagons, the fires, the people.

Her mouth was parched. It hurt to breathe now and at last she looked down at her side. The beige fabric of her dress had a sheen that trapped the moonlight in glowing pleats and creases, but a dark stain had leached the colors into a seeping black that spread from her ribs down the skirt to the hem. She touched it and her hand came away sticky and damp. Reluctantly she looked back. Midnight drops on the earth marked her weaving trail.

Her legs began to tremble with the effort of moving. She felt hot and queasy. The earth tilted and she fell.

Get up, Molly, get up....

The dirt ground into her cheek, mingling with the tears that streamed down her face. Memories played through her mind, mixing with the moment then fluttering away like feathers in the wind. Adam, holding her in his arms. Arlie, screaming for help. Brodie, staring at her with all his hatred.

She tried to get up, but her arms had gone numb and her legs wouldn't move. She clenched her eyes tightly, feeling the life draining out of her in a slow stream. She had to stay alive. Adam would come looking for her and he'd have a trail of blood to follow. Unless he hadn't survived the battle. For all she knew, he was laid out on his death bed, waiting for her to come back. Maybe dead already. The thought was so painful that it pushed away everything else. Alone, frightened and filled with anguish, she wept. For Adam, for Arlie, for herself.

And then thoughts of Brodie invaded her sorrow like a summer storm, churning the heat into a fierce, violent tempest. Brodie, who had killed her sister, who may have murdered Dewey Yokum and certainly Alice Ann O'Keefe, and slain how many others in the battle he'd caused today, had beaten her as well. Rage swelled up inside her until it filled every pulsing inch. He would get away with it.

He would smile his innocent smile and he would go on to
California, secure in his brother's love and devotion, forever manipulating or removing whomever might try to find a place in Adam's life. Even if Adam didn't believe him, even if Adam saw the truth this time, it would destroy him. Adam would hold himself responsible for his brother's crimes. He would punish himself forever. She clenched her eyes. It wasn't fair.