Heart of a Dove (37 page)

He disregarded my question, though he invited, “Sit a moment, Lila. I’ve not yet finished my whiskey and I’ll tell you a story or two.”

Dixon hunched down and Sam passed him the flask. When Sam produced his knife, the very knife that had cut my face years ago, I forced myself not to flinch. He freed my wrists with a single stroke and I pressed them instantly into my bloody skirt, even as Sam sat back on his haunches and motioned impatiently for Dixon to hand back the whiskey. I refused to sit, instead staring at him impassively.

“You southerners and your goddamned pride,” he said. “Don’t know that you lost the War, do you? I thought we had killed enough of you to prove that your pride means less than shit. But southerners breed like goddamn rabbits. And you won’t let your own forget, will you? Keep that Rebel spirit alive and well.” He was gnashing his teeth almost unconsciously as he spoke. He said, “Look there,” and indicated my waist. For a second I faltered, terrified he had spied the arrowhead. “You were already carrying a little Rebel bastard, weren’t you?”

I made a sound in my throat, unable to stop it. His eyes flashed to mine with a hint of triumph; he’d succeeded in causing a reaction. He looked beyond me, as though confused, and asked Dixon, “Where is that goddamn Jack?”

Dixon thumbed over his shoulder. “Out near the horses. He ain’t wanting a piece of a woman. Maybe he wants a horse instead.”

Sam chuckled, as my heart continued to shred out of control, preparing me for battle. Ginny’s brother. I would never have known, though it made sense of so many things. I prayed that I was ready to face what lay ahead, my thoughts bloodthirsty in a way that I had never assumed myself capable. Outwardly I did my best to keep a sense of composure. If Dixon tried to take me back to that tent, I would have to stab him, and as much as I wished for the strength and capability to kill all of them, I wanted to destroy Sam the most. My fingers itched with it.

Sam studied the fire and at last answered my original question, not looking at me as he replied, “Ginny and me had the same mother, that is true. And she was as much a whore as any whore I’ve ever known. Couldn’t say for sure who our pas were. Ginny runs the same whorehouse where our ma used to work. Same exact.” His eyes flickered to me, briefly. “She wouldn’t let me back in, not after I stabbed at you. Woulda been worse had I killed you.” He spoke with calm, no hint of regret or apology. “She wants you back at her place.”

“Why?” I whispered, as though he would tell me anything.

“Christ knows why. Money, most like,” Sam said, still intent upon the fire. It colored his face orange, a face beset by a strange, empty expression. He appeared haggard, much older than when I’d looked so unwillingly upon him the night he cut me. I concentrated all of my hatred into his eye socket, imagining the arrowhead I would bury there. It scraped against my right palm, sharp and immediate against the slickness of sweat, keeping me fixed on what I must do, shortly. Suddenly, as though sensing the burn of rage in my thoughts, Sam’s eyes met mine.

He rose to his full height. He was tall and spare, and had taken everything from me that he possibly could. I breathed shallowly through my nostrils, trying desperately to calm myself, my body preparing for battle so intensely that for those moments I didn’t feel any physical pain. Sam stepped around the fire and caught my upper arm; I cringed, I couldn’t help it, and he said in my ear, “How about I give you another bastard?”

I let him walk me, at his hitching pace, to the low-slung tent.

Lorie, this is it, this is it, this is it.

A broken refrain, and it was time. I watched the little tent with its gaping mouth of an opening, sweat trickling over my temples and between my breasts, as I considered that this was the place I may very well die in the next few minutes.

Give me strength, give me strength
, I begged, and then I thought of Malcolm, who had only been twelve years old, and I knew, without a doubt, that I could do what I must.

Sawyer
, I cried out in my mind, closing my eyes as Sam shoved me towards the entrance.
Sawyer, I love you, I will never stop loving you.

I stumbled to my knees and groaned inadvertently. Sam knelt behind me and clamped both hands on my hips. He was breathing roughly and the canvas walls closed off most of the firelight, gifting me with an advantage. He yanked my thighs from beneath me and flung me to my back, but I didn’t fight him yet, blood pulsing in my ears, roaring with determination.

“Don’t be long,” Dixon called over. “Leave a little something for me.”

Hatred was a powerful, elemental weapon. Sam leaned back and shed his suspenders. My palms were so slippery that I was terrified I might drop the arrowhead I’d clutched all through the day. When he reached beneath my skirt and caught my knees in his hard hands, spreading them, I bit back instinctive screams and tensed my arms.

“You whore,” he muttered.

Gorge rose in my throat and I thought my heart might give out with the strain of its beating. I maneuvered the arrowhead between my right thumb and forefinger. I cupped my left hand around his neck, his hair stringy and greasy under my fingers, for all the world as though I was perhaps inviting him closer. He braced over me. I held his head in position, shuddering for a moment on the brink, and with every ounce of my strength plunged the sharp stone point into his left eye.

There was a horrible sensation of ripe sinking, as though I’d pierced a rotting plum, and blood poured hotly down my fingers. Sam roared as I’d never known a human could, rolling from atop me and thrashing violently. My vision narrowed to pinpricks, but I twisted out of the tent, crawling on my knees before stumbling to my feet, lifting my hem and running. I knew I wouldn’t get far, as Dixon was coming. I screamed then, in terror, realizing it was futile to flee, even as I fled. I ran as I hadn’t realized I could, hurting so badly and with bare feet, into the darkness of the open prairie.

I heard a gunshot from somewhere behind, and was certain that Dixon was firing at me. Nothing struck my flesh, but someone was in pursuit. It was surely Dixon, as I could still hear Sam’s howling in the distance. Then suddenly through all of the hellish fear and pain, through my labored breathing and the ringing in my ears, I thought I heard Sawyer.

“
Lorie!
” he roared, his deep voice frantic, feral-sounding. My heart flared like kindling, feet stalling in shock.

Oh God—

But my wordless plea was cut short as Dixon crashed against my back and caught me around the waist.

“
Sawyer!
” I screamed, just before Dixon’s forward motion propelled us nearly to the ground.

Instead of falling over with me, he spun, so that my legs came out from beneath me. Instinct guided my actions, my hands grabbing at his face behind me, sliding ridiculously, harmlessly, over the sweating surface. My fingers scrabbled over his nose. Another gunshot, closer, and Sam’s rage was abruptly cut short. Dixon grunted and swung me viciously to the ground, knocking loose all of the air in my lungs. I reeled and then tried to scuttle away, my elbows raking the earth, but he stomped a boot onto my hem and stopped me, kneeling down, his face that of a demon. He took my neck in his hands.

Running footsteps pounded in our direction. Before I could blink, the stock of a rifle swung in a whistling arc through the night, connecting with the side of Dixon’s head. His skull split with a sound like a ripe muskmelon and he slumped instantly, his hold loosening. I rolled away and to my side, watching in stupefaction as Sawyer, scarce five feet away from me, swung the rifle brutally, like a man chopping firewood into sections, dealing two additional blows to Dixon’s head; there was little left to recognize as human after the final swing and he tossed aside the rifle with a groan, his breathing harsh.

Sawyer was alive
.

He was here, and he was alive.

In the next second he was upon me where I lay on the ground, curving his body over mine, cradling me under him as his frantic words rushed out, “Lorie, oh God, Lorie, it’s me, it’s me and I’m here, you’re safe, you’re safe, sweetheart. Oh God, where are you hurt? What did they do to you?”

I could see him in the glow of the firelight, and he was alive.

I sobbed brokenly, unable to believe that he was here, when I’d thought him dead. He leaned above me on his forearms and knees, putting no weight upon me as his hands cupped my face with infinite gentleness, ran down my neck, my ribs, my hips, then back up and over as he assessed the damage to my body.

“You’re alive, you’re alive, oh Sawyer, you’re alive,” I couldn’t stop saying it as he sheltered me beneath him, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, my lips, though with extreme care, as though I may shatter apart. I gripped his shirtfront and clung. I could smell his skin and I could taste his tears as they fell to my lips.

He was alive. He hadn’t been taken from me
.

“Let me look at you,” he said, still desperate-sounding, as though he couldn’t believe I was alive before him either. “I am so sorry, sweetheart, I am so sorry. I will never forgive myself. I will never ride away from you again, do you hear me?”

“You’re alive,” I said again. “They told me…oh Sawyer…they told me they had ki…they had killed you.” Even understanding that they had lied to me, I could scarcely speak the words, still choking on sobs. I clutched him as hard as I could, as his hands roved over me, brushing hair and tears from my cheeks, cupping my face.

His eyes burned into mine as he vowed, “I will never leave you again.” He choked on a sob, his hawk eyes agonized. “What did they do, what did they do to you, sweetheart? Can you get your arms around my neck?”

I nodded as he shifted enough to curl me into his arms. He rose to his full height, cradling me, and I clung to his neck, though my side hurt so much I whimpered, unable to help it.

He moved towards the fire with hurried yet careful steps, tears rolling down his face, his beautiful face with its planes and angles, my Sawyer, here before me. I saw Whistler near the fire; she was safe, and she had carried him to me. Once there he knelt carefully and he said, his voice harsh with anguish, “When I heard you scream I would have killed anyone in my path to get to you.” He kissed my face so tenderly, then let me softly to the ground. “I’m so sorry,” he said, breathless with fear and concern. “Where do you hurt? You’re so bruised, love,” he moaned.

I gathered myself together enough to reach for his right hand and held it tightly, willing him to calm himself. My words were jumbled as I tried to explain, “Sawyer, they didn’t…this morning…this
morning
…the baby…I bled everywhere…”

He controlled his emotions with visible effort, again my calm and capable Sawyer, tucking away the passionate anger that had driven him to find me here on the prairie. He said softly, “I am going to get a blanket for you to lie on, and I am going to look you over.” He bent over me, kissing my forehead, before going straight to Whistler, who nickered and nudged him. I watched from on the ground, content just to keep my eyes upon him.

“What about Malcolm and Boyd?” I asked, suddenly frightened again. “Their horses are here…”

“They’re safe,” he said gently. “They’re safe, love.” He spread the blanket and then lifted me atop it, stroking hair from my temples. He held my eyes as he said quietly, “They shot Gus, honey. He’s gone.”

“I know,” I whispered, as fresh tears leaked hotly over my temples.

Sawyer caught my hands into his and kissed them, then worked to gently unbutton my dress. With little effort on my part, he slipped it down over my body, leaving only my filthy shift. He drew in a harsh breath when my dress was removed, the panic coming back to his face.

“There’s so much blood,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Oh God, you’re hurting. Your lip, sweetheart. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” He steeled himself again and worked efficiently, easing the petticoat and shift up to my hipbones. His strong hands were warm and gentle as he spread my thighs. He said, low, “Tell me what happened. When did you start to bleed?”

“This morning,” I whispered. “They came upon us so quickly. It was him, it was Sam. Ginny paid him to come after me.”

Sawyer’s eyes were growing feral again.

“The man who cut you,” he said, and there was such menace in his voice that were Sam Rainey still alive, he would regret every last moment of his life. But he was gone, Sawyer had dispatched all three of them, of that I was certain, and I had sunk my arrowhead into Sam’s eye, before he’d died.

“Yes. And Jack was with him too. I didn’t know the other, but he said…he said…” and my voice trembled and choked just to remember. “He said that he had…killed you and Malcolm…and Boyd. He said it was never too late to kill….Rebels.” I hadn’t meant to weep again. “I spent the last twenty-four hours…thinking you were dead…Sawyer, oh God…I just prayed that they would kill me quickly.”

He bent back over me, again with no weight, bracing himself, his hands bracketing my face. He kissed my eyes, my cheeks, resting his lips against me and simply breathing, letting me breathe him. I held him fiercely, pressing my face to his heartbeat. He was here. He had found me, and I would never let him go, not ever again.

“This morning, I thought I heard you calling for me,” I whispered, closing my eyes.

“I was, sweetheart, you did hear me. I found…” His voice hitched, but he went on, raggedly, “I found Gus this morning, and you weren’t there. I was out of my mind with fear, begging you to tell me where you were. Then I heard you too, Lorie, I heard your voice in my head and I knew where to follow.”

I had known it, I had known.

“It’s the strength of what binds us,” I whispered.

“It’s stronger than anything I have ever known,” he said. “I found you. I will always find you, this I swear.”

“Sawyer,” I whispered, and his eyes took on a new determination.

“Here, sweetheart, let me look at you,” he said, easing back to inspect the damage to my body. He kept his voice soft and kept speaking, calming me, as he inspected me with gentle fingers. “Darlin’ girl, my sweet darling, I don’t see any new bleeding, I don’t think, though there’s plenty dried on your legs. I remember Mama helping often at birthings. She talked of feeling a woman’s belly to make sure there wasn’t any swelling inside of her,” and his fingertips moved carefully to my abdomen. He said painfully, “You’re so bruised, sweetheart.”