Whispers (13 page)

Stunned, Zach lowered his hands. His lips moved silently over a question he didn’t seem able to form. He turned shocked eyes on Reilly.

“
What—”

But before he could finish a door slammed loudly inside the house. And then another door banged shut, the sound echoing like a bomb. Reilly stepped inside, Zach on his heels. He’d cleared the threshold, had a split second to register that there was someone standing in the shadows, and then the front door shut with force enough to rattle the house.

Zach was saying something, but Reilly couldn’t hear him because every door in the house was slamming over and over. The thundering booming traveled down like repeating artillery.
Bam, bam, bam.

And then silence.

Frozen in place, Reilly and Zach watched as the knob on the front door turned and then swung quietly open again.

Chapter Thirteen

May 1896

Colorado

I turned slowly. In every direction the mountains reached up and sealed me down in the scrub. I had survived the violence of the outlaws, but I would not survive this. Once I’d waded across the shallow but fast river, I’d left behind the flames that had chased me from my family’s burning camp, but I could not give up my run. The vision of my mother, slaughtered, crushed beneath the burning wagon, unborn baby dead inside her... It would haunt me forever. I knew I would always remember her, not as I’d known her alive, but as she’d been in death.

So I ran. I didn’t know for how long or how far. The sun had arced across the sky and night had fallen more than once, but time had no meaning in the place of pain that I existed in. I didn’t know where I was, how to get back to where I’d begun. My only thought had been to flee, like a coward. I’d taken my daddy’s shotgun, lifted his hunting knife off his cold body, and I’d run. I didn’t even know if there were bullets left in the rifle. At least I knew how to shoot it, though not with any skill. I even knew how to load it, if I’d had more bullets. But at that moment I didn’t care. The knife hung in the pocket of my skirt, sheathed in its heavy leather. It felt like an anchor, pulling me down into the depths of this horror. It had banged into my leg as I charged across the desolate valley between the foothills, punishing me for my weakness with each step I took. My thigh would be black with bruises. I was glad of it.

Dusk hung heavy in the sky again, like a gray velvet curtain with a tiny, intricate pattern of rhinestones glimmering in the weave. I knew later the stars would be like diamonds glittering so bright they hurt the eyes. Where would I be when they came out? Where was I now? I hadn’t seen another living soul or even a sign of life since I’d left the camp.

I’d never known a sense of direction. My daddy had teased me relentlessly that I couldn’t tell east from west. As the silvery light crept over the lavender sky, my eyes caught on a wisp of smoke in the distance that had been invisible to me before. Had I run in circles? If I followed that smoke, would I end up back at the camp?

There would be nothing to find but death, and yet it was a destination. A place where other travelers might stumble upon me. Now that I’d slowed, the steady thumping of the knife against my leg brought tears to my eyes, but I didn’t remove it from my pocket. The rifle seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and my hand and arm cramped as I gripped it. Grief was a hitch in my side, making each step so painful that I didn’t want to take it. I didn’t want to see what was left of my family and yet, a part of me welcomed the pain. A part of me knew I deserved to see them. If I’d done something to help, they might still be alive.

No, they wouldn’t. I’d just be dead, too.

Though it was a voice of reason in my head, it angered me. I should be dead.

I was so thirsty my mouth felt like ash and my insides were hollow with hunger. I’d slept on and off, when exhaustion had literally brought me to my knees, but I was still so fatigued that putting one foot in front of the other was a monumental effort. Perhaps another day in the rising heat without food or water would find me joining my family anyway.

I reached the hilltop and looked down into a wooded valley. Aspen and cottonwood trees grew wide and sprawling in the pocket of lush vegetation. As the last of day leeched from the sky, it took with it all color from the world below. The trees looked black against the gray, the ground another version of darkness. The trail of smoke drifting up, white against the shadowed landscape.

This was not where my family had camped. Pine trees scattered darkly over the foothills, but the grove where I’d hidden was nowhere to be seen. I could not make out where the fire burned, but I realized it was not the smoldering ashes of my family I saw. It was a campfire and on it, the smell of food.

It took only an instant for me to understand and then rage overwhelmed me, adding power to my exhausted body. The Smith Brothers. I’d stumbled across their camp. The taste of vengeance rose up inside me, bitter on my tongue. I wrapped my hand around my daddy’s shotgun and once again, I began to run. I bolted through the trees with branches snagging at my hair and ripping at my clothes, but still I did not slow.

As I drew closer I could hear voices, but not the deep drawl of any of the Smith riders. These were women’s voices.

Confused, I paused. Why would women be out here with murdering outlaws?

In shadowed twilight I crept closer. I could smell the fire—made of cow pies by the noxious odor—long before I could see the flames. At last I was near enough to see the flicker of fire and the people sitting around it. Three women, clothed as I was in traveling dresses of indistinguishable browns and grays, sat comfortably by a fire. One of the women was Negro, another a mix of races I couldn’t discern, but she looked to have been made from a golden wax, and a third looked of the Irish with a mane of rust-red hair and skin pale even in the elements.

The Negro and Irish women were sewing as they listened to the golden woman speak. The firelight caressed her skin, giving her a bronzed hue. Her teeth flashed white as she smiled. She seemed to be telling a story and the others hung on her words, pausing with needles poised for the next stitch as she drew the tale out.

Beyond her, another Negro woman, this one large and lumbering and black as the night, moved about the fire. She wore a handkerchief tied around her head and an apron that seemed to glow in this world of black and white. She didn’t give the speaker the attention the others did, but she listened all the same as she fried bacon and tended something else that smelled heavenly. My stomach growled so loud I feared they’d hear me.

They camped beside a wagon with a tarp strung from the side to posts pounded into the ground. I crouched, watching them, afraid to step into the open. What were they doing out here, alone, without men to protect them? The women of Alamosa did not venture too far from their men—perhaps theirs were close by. Could they be with the Smith Brothers?

I stayed hidden in the underbrush that surrounded their camp, moving in a steady circle until I’d made my way to the other side. I heard the sound of water and saw a stream to my right. My thirst drove me to the banks where I drank until I made myself sick. Moments later I was heaving the cold water out again. I lay beside the stream until I had enough strength to rinse my mouth, take a few small sips, and then move back toward the women’s camp.

I didn’t see a corral for horses or any livestock that might pull the wagon. Were these women stranded? Perhaps victims of thievery? I thought of the Smith Brothers again. Had they been here? The laughter I’d heard said no, but people had a way of rising to the occasion when tragedy struck, and they had each other to see them through.

When I looked back to the campfire, the golden woman had finished her story. She sat beside the young Negro who looked, upon closer inspection, much younger than my seventeen. The larger woman still hovered over her skillets, scorched skirts perilously close to the fire, but the redhead was nowhere in sight. Their laughter drifted back to me, waking an ache so deep it hurt. There had been laughter at our campfire each night when Grandma, burdened though she was by her wheelchair, and Momma and I would clean up after our meal.

A snapping twig to my right caught me unaware and I spun around. I was face-to-face with the redhead. She gave a shout of surprise, eyes round as saucers, skirts bunched around her waist, knees bent in a squat. She stumbled backward and fell on her bare behind. Embarrassment rooted me to the spot. I looked away, sputtering an apology.

“
Saint Mary and Joseph,” she exclaimed in a lilting Irish brogue as she struggled to stand, yanking up her drawers and down her skirts at once. In an instant the women from the camp had surrounded us.

“
Where you come from?” the large black woman exclaimed.

I opened my mouth to answer, but the Irish woman interrupted me. “You’re head to toe in blood, lass. What are y’ doing out here?”

The big one had a knife in her hand, the kind my mother used to bone chicken. She waved it at me.

“
She trouble. You get, trouble.”

The girl I’d guessed to be younger than I pushed forward. Up close she looked no more than fifteen. A light rash of blemishes made a T of her forehead and nose, but it was her luminous eyes and dark lashes that gathered the attention. She would be an incredible beauty when she matured.

“
She scairt,” she said. She laid a gentle hand on my arm and said, “Don’t be scairt. We won’t hurt you. I’m Chick.”

I stared uneasily from one unfamiliar face to another. Who were these women? Why were they out here in the middle of nowhere?

“
She look like somebody been at her wit a whip. Somebody after you?” Chick asked.

I shook my head.

“
She looks hungry, is what she’s looking,” the Irish one said.

“
Don’t be feeding her like no stray dog,” the hefty one said. “Mis’r Tate see you doin’ that he’ll have your hide.”

“
That Athena,” Chick said softly of the woman waving the knife. From her tone I understood that Athena was the ruler of this small band of women.

“
He wouldn’t dare lay a hand on her,” the woman who looked dipped in gold said, moving nearer to me. Up close, her skin was the color of light molasses and it gleamed in the weak light. I had thought Chick lovely, but this girl... woman ... was breathtaking. She shined like a luminary. Her hair was cut very short, almost masculine, but there was nothing male about her curving figure and gleaming beauty. She spoke with fine grammar, not like the other girls.

“
Best not let him hear that talk,” Athena said, still waving the knife. She glared at me with a hatred that went deeper than our short acquaintance. I didn’t know what I’d done to earn it, but I was smart enough not to ask. “He have your hide,” she told the golden girl. “Honey or no Honey.” Another pointed look at me, as if I had caused some great trouble by stumbling in half-starved and desolate.

“
Why don’ she talk?” Chick asked Athena, whose expression became harsher by the minute. I thought I’d better say something before she ordered me away.

Swallowing my fear, I asked, “Are you stranded?”

“
Stranded?” the Irish one repeated. “No, girl.”

“
Then where are your horses?”

“
M’sr Tate got them,” Athena said suspiciously.

“
Do you ... have you seen the Smith Brothers?”

“
Who?” Athena demanded.

“
Lonnie and Jake.”

“
Don’ know no Lonnie and Jake. You get hit in the head?”

I didn’t think so, but I’d fallen enough times during my mad dash that I could have.

“
Why you covered wit blood?” Chick asked, reaching a hand out, but not touching me.

I wasn’t ready to answer that. I wasn’t certain I could trust them.

“
My name is Ella,” I said. “I’m lost.”

The golden girl approached and laid a gentle hand on my arm. “Are you hurt?”

I shrugged and tears filled my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, but I didn’t want to be lost and alone in the world either. Whether it was wise or not, I couldn’t pretend that I was not in desperate need of help.

The golden girl said, “Bring her over to the fire. Let’s get her cleaned up.”

Even though I wanted that, wanted the fire, a taste of whatever smelled so heavenly, a rest... I could not so easily forget the fear and apprehension that I knew would never leave me.

“
Why are you out here? A group of women ... alone?” I heard the words, knew I’d formed them, but hardly recognized the directness, the hard tone. They seemed to have come from another girl than the one who’d woken up just a few days ago, mad at her father for taking her away from her friends. But I would never be that girl again.

The women looked at each other. No one answered.

I stood my ground, yet inside I was shaking. It was part fear, part anticipation. If they told me they were the women of the Smith brothers, I don’t know what I would do to avenge the deaths of my family. I didn’t think I had the courage to hurt them ... but I would not eat the food or lay in the blankets by the fire of the men who had destroyed my life.

The silence stretched. Finally the golden girl whispered, “What terrible thing happened to you, child?”