Fairer than Morning (30 page)

A blow to his head. The world spun. Someone from behind. Had he come out the window? A heavy body threw itself on top of him, hands at his throat. Will fought back, grabbing wrists, yanking against a vise-grip. The man was strong. Unable to break his grip, Will drove his knee as hard as he could into the man's midsection. He grunted and his grasp loosened. Will heaved him to the side and pounded at his jaw, but struck only a glancing blow. The man seized Will's hair and yanked his head to the ground, making him twist on his stomach to avoid a broken neck. A knee planted in the small of his back knocked the wind out of him.

“I'll be gone in an hour, boy,” the man whispered. “My wagon's just down the road.” A cold ring of metal touched Will's temple. He stiffened.
Lord, make it quick
.

A solid thud sounded above Will and the weight fell from his back. He rolled over and scrambled to his feet. Ann stood over the supine form of the bounty hunter, a thick log raised in both hands like a club. Her nightgown billowed in the slight breeze; her jaw was clenched, her eyes eerily vacant. She raised the log high over the man's head.

“No!” He did not want her to kill the man. She seemed driven by a force beyond her—a blind fury. He hardly recognized her, and she was not listening.

He launched himself up and pushed her. She stumbled sideways and fell, the log dropping from her hands. “Stay there!” he yelled.

The bounty hunter was already on his feet. On the ground the barrel of Will's pistol glinted, halfway between him and the other man.

Will dived for it. His hand just touched the handle as the other man grabbed the barrel. Grappling for it, both of them sprawled on the turf. Their hands became a straining knot of sinew. The man tried to turn the gun back toward Will and break his grip. Will's hands were slipping; the man rose to one knee, forcing Will on his back.

He had only one choice. Every muscle taxed to its limit, he moved his index finger to the trigger and pulled.

An ear-splitting boom. The impact of the shot spun the man half-around and threw him on his side a few yards away. He staggered to his feet, clutching his bicep, his face slack with shock. Then he ran for the trees, hitching as he kept one hand to his wounded arm.

Will jumped up and ran after him. The man moved with surprising speed, crashing ahead through the brush. Will had to follow by sound alone, as the darkness pressed in and made every step a leap of faith. Something caught his foot; he went down like a felled tree, knocking the wind out of himself. When he scrambled up again, the sounds of the man were faint. He would not be able to catch him now.

Crestfallen, he retraced his steps to the cabin with more care. He hoped he had not hurt Ann when he pushed her; worry quickened his pace as he emerged into the clearing.

She was sitting up where she had fallen, her nightdress a pale pool against the black ground. As he approached, she lifted her head, tears streaking her face.

He hung his head. “Forgive me.”

“No, you were right to stop me.” She was as pale as her gown, her hair tangled. “I would have killed him.”

“Still, I should never—”

“It was Rumkin. He tried to kill me once.” Her face was stricken under its tear streaks. She blinked and then rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “He escaped?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She cast her eyes down, her white face tense.

“He won't be back tonight, not with a shot to the arm.” Will stood. “I must see to John and Clara. I'll return shortly.”

Upon entering the cabin, he found to his relief that Clara was sitting up in bed, untied. John perched next to her, his feet braced on the floor as he bent and rubbed the back of his head.

“Just a nasty bump.” John spoke more slowly than usual, but seemed otherwise recovered. “I'm sorry. He must have snuck up quieter than a mouse and hit me with his pistol. I didn't sleep on the watch.”

“At least you and Clara are safe for now.”

“Praise God.” John took Will's hand in both of his rough palms and shook it. “And thank you, brother.”

“You have nothing to thank me for. He got away.”

John's brow creased under its cross-shaped brand, but he pressed Will's hand once more before releasing it. “Still. If you hadn't come running, we'd be trussed up like turkeys in the back of a wagon.”

“That's for sure,” Clara said from where she lay on the bed.

Will glanced away and saw the shotgun standing in the corner. He retrieved it, feeling the reassuring weight of the stock. “We should all go to the main house, John, for the rest of the evening. Just to be cautious. You and I can sit by the fire outside.”

“All right. And Clara can stay in the sitting room there?”

Will nodded.

The quilt lay on the floor by the hearth. Will picked it up and walked out of the cabin. A few feet away, Ann stood shivering, her arms wrapped around her blowing gown. “Here you are.” He wrapped the quilt around her shoulders. “We will all go back to the house together.”

Her lower lip trembled, but she swallowed and whispered, “Thank you.”

She needed comfort. He knew he should not, but he put his arm around her shoulders.

To his amazement, she bowed her head and leaned in to his shoulder like a little girl. Her warm sweet smell rose up, making him want to pull her close and embrace her. He forced himself to stay very still. Then John came out of the cabin, and she jerked away.

“Miss Miller, are you all right?” John asked. The pistol was thrust through his belt and he supported Clara, who had mustered enough strength to walk.

“I'm well, John.” Ann's voice was tight. “Let's go back. I woke at the sound of the pistol shot. If the girls woke too, they must be frantic.”

John murmured to Clara. “Keep good hold of me.” He turned to Ann again. “Come on, Miss. We'll be there in no time.”

They all set off across the clearing, Will in the rear with the shotgun.

The men did not enter the house when they arrived. Ann took Clara's arm and helped her over the threshold. She murmured a good night and closed the front door behind them.

For the few hours of darkness that remained, John and Will sat by the fire. Every now and then, one would stoke the fire with the poker or add another log.

“Why don't you get some rest?” John asked at one point. “I can watch.”

But after the fight, all Will's senses remained alert. “No, I cannot sleep. You should sleep instead.”

John shook his head.

So they stayed there, backs propped to big logs.

“When Mr. Miller returns tomorrow, we will ask him what to do next,” Will said.

“In case Rumkin comes back?”

“Yes.”

John sighed. The silence was heavy, but after a few minutes it became more meditative. John gazed at the fire, as if other sights painted the canvas of his memory.

The log on the fire cracked and sparked. Will's eyes drifted to the closed shutter of Ann's bedroom window.

He tried to conjure up Emmie's face to feel what he should feel for her.

But Ann's warm fragrance lingered and returned, all night long.

Twenty-Eight

S
OMEONE WAS RIDING TOWARD THE HOUSE. IN THE
afternoon light, Ann could see that his horse was a bay. Her father. She sighed and the tightness in her chest eased for the first time since he had left. But she would have to tell him about Rumkin. Would she tell her father about her own part in the attack?

Two hours earlier, Will had escorted the Simons back to the cabin, leaving her to keep a lookout with the shotgun.

“Even if Rumkin were able to come back—and he will not, with a bullet in his arm—,” he had said, “he would not seek you out here. He would come to the cabin.”

Though she knew it was true, since Will's departure she had been hard-pressed to hide her anxious watchfulness from the girls. She had brought a bucket of potatoes out and peeled them, cleaned the barn, fed the animals, and done any other chore that would keep her outside where she could see. And while she watched the road, one disbelieving thought rippled through her mind:
I would have killed him
. The same savagery that so horrified her in Allan Burbridge had crept into her own soul, so she would have beaten a man to death. She was worse than a beast, to witness a crime against heaven in the murder of Mr. Holmes and still be prepared to do the same.

The horse and rider drew nearer. But the man in the saddle was not her father—he was too tall and lean. When he doffed his hat to her from twenty yards away, blond hair shone in the sunlight.

It was Eli. Standing on the stoop, Ann clutched the kitchen door with one hand and touched the other to her forehead. She had completely forgotten about her plans to ride with Eli this afternoon.

He rode up, oblivious to her sinking heart, his eyes bright.

“Good afternoon!” he said. A relaxed and expert horseman, he held his hat easily across the pommel and reined in his bay gelding with one hand. He scrutinized her attire with evident surprise. “Are you . . . dressed for riding?”

“I must ask your pardon, Eli.” She was sure she did not look presentable, having slept very little after the struggle. “I cannot go with you after all.”

His smile disappeared. “Is something amiss? Have I offended?”

“No, no. I am so very sorry. I cannot discuss it.” She pasted a smile to her lips.

He tilted his head, his blue eyes piercing. “I hope you will tell me if something is the matter. I will be glad to help.”

“Really, everything is fine.”

But everything was growing less fine by the moment, for across the field on the other side of Eli's horse, Will was walking quickly toward them. This would only complicate the matter. She wished he would turn around and go away.

“Where is your father?” Eli asked, still unaware of Will's approach.

“He should have been home by now.” Distracted, Ann tried to keep her attention on Eli.

“Are you worried on his account?”

Will was only a few paces away. Eli's horse must have caught sight of him, for it spooked forward a few steps. Eli regained his balance quickly, his eyebrows shooting up as he noticed Will.

“And who is this?” he asked Ann without taking his eyes off Will. The apprentice's shirt was streaked with dirt and his hair tousled from his struggle the night before, in sharp contrast to Eli's impeccable white collar and navy coat.

“Perhaps I should ask who you are, as you are on the Millers' property.” Will's face was drawn with fatigue, but he appeared taller and more substantial than she expected, even though he had to squint up at Eli on his horse.

“Oh, let me explain—” She had to save this situation. Will's brows were knit together and Eli's face as cold as marble. “Eli, this is Will Hanby, my father's new apprentice.”

“I see.” Eli gazed down at Will and turned back to her as if he did not see at all, his perfect eyebrows drawn into a flat line. “Is he staying here?” A faint dryness edged his question.

“Of course not,” Will said. “I'm sleeping in the barn.” A muscle twitched in his cheek, but otherwise he remained motionless.

“Ah.” Eli sat equally still on his horse, matching Will's stare with the hauteur of a French nobleman dismissing a grubby revolutionary.

Trotting hoofbeats thudded down the road. Grateful for any distraction, she turned to look. This time it really was her father. Bayberry's trot accelerated to a canter as he closed the distance between them. But when he drew near, his expression visibly relaxed, and he slowed Bayberry to a walk again.

He guided the mare next to Eli's gelding and halted.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bowen. You've met my apprentice, Will?” He looked from one young man to the other. Ann hoped that was not amusement that flickered across his face. She would be irked if her father found this situation comic.

She hurried to answer before Eli or Will could say anything further. “I am a featherbrain, Father. I was to ride with Eli today, but it completely slipped my mind. Now something has interfered with that plan.” Her voice dwindled to awkward silence. No further explanation could be made in Eli's presence.

“Mr. Miller, I must speak with you,” Will said. “It's a matter of some urgency.”

Her father dismounted. “Pardon us, Mr. Bowen,” he said, nodding to Eli. He took the reins over Bayberry's head and led her toward the barn. Will followed.

She marveled at their silent complicity. Consumed with his mission, Will seemed more a partner than an apprentice as the two men strode through the yard and went into the barn together.

But they had left her to manage Eli.

“It seems quite a melodrama is taking place at the Miller home,” he said.

“Yes.” She approached his horse and rested her hand on the bay's neck. “Something unusual has happened, but I'm not at liberty to discuss it. Please forgive me.”