Heartbreak Creek (44 page)

“I’m sorry, Ed.” With a sigh, he dropped his forehead against hers. “But I don’t want to talk about Sally right now. I don’t want to talk at all. I just want to show you how much I love you. Can we do that?” When she didn’t respond, he lifted his head and found her smiling up at him.

“Well . . . if you insist . . .” And as she ran a hand over his hip, he watched a whole new emotion take hold.

Lust. One of his favorites.

 

 

Again, he awoke to sunshine and an empty space beside him. But he smiled anyway. Today was going to be a grand day.

Hopefully, they would hear back from the man in Las Vegas, and the boardinghouse by the hot springs would have a spare room.

Then he and Doc would talk to Sally, explaining how the warm, dry climate and healing powers of the hot springs would be better for her than the cold, snowy winter in the Colorado Rockies. If she insisted the family go with her, Doc would appeal to her motherly instincts by pointing out the risks such close contact would pose to the children. Then once all the medical issues were out of the way and Doc left, Declan would tell her about the divorce.

Hopefully again, she would agree without a fuss and sign the papers so he could get them back to Witherspoon before the judge left on his next circuit. Then it would be done. Ed would be his only wife—once he married her again—legally, this time. Sally would be able to get the care she needed. And his life could get back on track.

Assuming the children could weather another parting from their ma.

And he could resolve this thing with Lone Tree.

And he could set the ranch to rights before winter.

And he would have enough cattle left to stay afloat another year.

Hell.
Maybe he shouldn’t get up, after all.

 

 

Edwina was in a dither of excitement most of the day. Odd, how a night with Declan always left her body worn out but her mind invigorated. She desperately wanted to tell Lucinda and Maddie about the divorce and sanatorium, but knew she had to wait until Doc heard back from the man in Las Vegas and Declan had a chance to speak to Sally and his children about his plans.

So she kept her silence and stayed as busy as she could, mending hotel bedding, making sure vacant rooms were dusted and ready for guests, and helping Brin with her letters. Again, she wished for Pru. Her sister would have had the child reciting the alphabet in record time. Probably in Latin.

She tried not to think about what Pru had suffered and why Thomas felt he needed to sequester her in the mountains in order for her to heal. Declan had said Pru seemed more shocked than injured. Edwina had noticed that same condition in the battered men wandering home after the war. Some recovered. Some didn’t. But Thomas seemed a patient, gentle man, and Edwina knew he cared deeply about Pru. So for now, all she could do was wait and hope for the best. Then once this thing with Sally Brodie was over, and they were sure Lone Tree was no longer a threat, she could get back to the school she was putting together for Pru’s return. That would certainly lift her sister’s spirits.

Despite her chores, the day dragged. When she took a lunch plate to the sheriff ’s office, Declan said they hadn’t heard back from Las Vegas, so Doc was looking into other sanatoriums in case this one didn’t pan out. They’d also decided not to talk to Sally until they’d found a place for her.

By the evening meal, Edwina had fretted herself into such a nervous state she could scarcely muster an appetite. Which didn’t escape her husband’s watchful eye.

“You have to eat, Ed. You hardly cast a shadow anymore.”

“Skinny as old Cooter Brown,” Brin crowed, waving a carrot.

“That makes no sense, Brin,” her oldest brother said as he served himself another slab of roast beef. “Cooter Brown was a crazy drunk, not skinny.”

“If he was drunk all the time,” Lucas pointed out in his logical way, “then he wouldn’t have had time to eat, so he was probably skinny, too.”

“Then she’s as skinny as Mrs. Gebbers’s old swayback mare,” Brin argued, refusing to give up. “That nag has lips so long she almost trips on them.”

Edwina ignored the unkind comment, deciding it was simply Brin’s revenge for an afternoon bent over a primer, nothing more.

“Ed’s lips aren’t near that long,” Joe Bill defended.

“And her back isn’t swayed,” loyal Lucas put in. “Except when she wears that butt-thing and it makes her dress poke out in back like—”

Lucinda cleared her throat. “That butt-thing is called a bustle, I believe.”

“Butt-bustle then.”

“Children,” their father warned.

“Well, it does,” Brin insisted. “Looks like she’s got a pillow stuffed under there.”

Maddie pressed her napkin over her mouth.

Edwina looked at the faces grinning at her, then at Maddie—still hiding behind her napkin—and Lucinda, whose green eyes were dancing.

“See what I have to contend with?” she said in mock exasperation. Then for the first time since Sally came home, she laughed out loud.

It was bath night, an arduous chore under any circumstances, but more so with Declan gone on his rounds and not available to supply intimidation. The boys went first, leaving water spills and havoc in their wake when they trooped upstairs to bed. While Edwina cleaned up the mess, Brin bathed. Once she was done, Edwina helped her into her flannel gown, then set buckets of fresh water on the stove to heat. Later she would return for her own bath. Perhaps with Declan. The idea of that made her heart dance.

“I think washing is stupid,” Brin groused as she stomped up the staircase with Edwina. “Chick never bathes and Amos only does it once a month.”

“Sad but true.”

“And Pa never used to bathe every single day until you came. Now he sometimes even smells like flowers.”

“Yes, he does.” Edwina smiled at the memory.

“When I grow up, I’m never, ever going to bathe.”

“I’m sure the bugs will be delighted.”

“What bugs?” At the top of the landing, Brin stopped. “What’s that sound?”

Edwina froze, instantly alert. From Sally Brodie’s room came a faint moan, then a weak voice calling her name. Alarmed, Edwina gave Brin a gentle shove. “Go on to our room. Now.”

“I can’t. You locked the door, remember?”

The voice called again.

Something was definitely wrong. Not wanting to take time to go down the hall, unlock the door, relock, and come back in case the sick woman needed immediate help, Edwina made a quick decision. Putting a hand on Brin’s shoulder, she said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

The door was unlocked. When Edwina pushed it open, she saw Sally lying on the floor across the room, her head resting in a pool of blood. “Sally!” she cried, rushing forward.

The woman’s eyes opened as Edwina knelt beside her. They were swollen and bruised. Blood seeped from a gash across her forehead. “What happened?” Edwina asked as she pressed her apron against the cut to staunch the flow. “Did you fall?”

Sally’s lips moved. Her voice was little more than a sigh. “Run . . .”

“What?” Edwina bent closer.

The hazel eyes widened. Sally’s labored breathing quickened as she looked past Edwina’s shoulder. “No. Y-You . . . promised.”

Edwina whipped around, then leaped to her feet when she saw a painted Indian standing inside the closed door. With one hand he pinned a struggling Brin against his body, his dirty hand over her mouth. In the other he held a knife, poised at the child’s throat.

“You scream, she dies.”

Edwina’s knees almost buckled. When she saw the long greasy hair, the war paint, the breechcloth and leggings, she knew she faced Declan’s enemy, Lone Tree. Her heart stuttered in her chest.

How had he gotten past Amos? Why had he attacked Sally Brodie? Why was he here now, threatening a child?

Declan’s child. He’s trying to get at Declan through his children
.

“No . . .” Sally Brodie’s voice was raw and broken. “Not . . . my baby. You promised.”

Promised?
Edwina’s mind reeled. Was Sally in league with Lone Tree? She took a step forward. “What are you—”

“Don’t talk!” The knife jabbed. Brin whimpered as a drop of blood ran down her neck. Edwina retreated, terror bubbling in her throat.

“You promised . . .”

Still not comprehending, Edwina spun to see Sally Brodie trying to push up onto her elbow. Lifting a shaking hand, she pointed at Edwina. “Take her . . . not baby . . . take—” Her words dissolved in a fit of coughing.

Finally understanding, Edwina faced the Indian again.

He had his ear to the door, listening. He was filthy, his hair matted, his swarthy skin grimy with dirt. The stink of his unwashed body mingled with the smell of Sally’s blood in the small room.

“Take me.” Edwina’s chest was so tight with fear she could scarcely get out the words. “The child will only slow you down. Take me.”

“Quiet!” Straightening away from the door, he waved the knife, motioning Edwina closer. “Come now.”

On shaking legs, Edwina crossed toward him, praying her knees wouldn’t give way. Every instinct told her to run, to scream, to fight. But the terror in Brin’s eyes reminded her she must do what he said.

When she was within arm’s reach, he whipped the knife around and pressed it under her chin. “You scream, she dies. Understand?”

Edwina rose on tiptoe, trying to escape the prick of the knife. “Yes.”

“You do what I say, she lives. Understand?” He pressed harder.

She felt a warm trickle as the tip pierced flesh, and bit her lip to keep from crying out. “Y-Yes.”

He took the knife away. “Open the door.”

She opened the door.

He peered out, then dragged Brin into the hall, his hand still over her mouth. She had quit fighting. Her eyes looked blank. Her fingers clutched at the hand clamped over her face.

“Go,” he ordered Edwina, pointing the knife toward the stairs.

With him looming behind her, Edwina went down the staircase.

Where was Declan? Why hadn’t anyone heard? Where was Amos or Yancey?

Then she saw Amos crumpled behind the front desk. Bleeding.

Nausea churned in her throat. She stumbled, then lurched forward when the knife pricked the small of her back.

He shoved her into the shadows of the dining room. The lingering odors of the evening meal wafted over her, momentarily overshadowing the reek of blood and musk from the filthy man behind her.

Brin started to whimper again. Oddly, that helpless, mewling cry gave Edwina the strength to keep going. Brin needed her. She couldn’t weaken now. She had to keep them alive until Declan found them.

“Do what he says, Brin,” she called back to the terrified child. “Papa will come. Just do what—” A vicious jab cut off her words. She staggered, gasping in pain as a warm wetness soaked into the back of her dress.

He shoved her out the kitchen door. A moment later, they were across the back alley and into the shadows of the trees behind the hotel, following a footpath that wound through the brush. Knowing every step took them farther from help and safety, Edwina choked back the scream pressing against her teeth and put one foot in front of the other.

The spicy scent of fir and pine and spruce hung in the air as the stillness of the forest closed around them. Sound dwindled to the distant rush of water ahead, the muffled thuds of their footfalls on the carpet of needles underfoot, and the harsh breathing of the man crowding behind her.

The days had lengthened as summer approached, but with high peaks rising all around them, daylight was fading fast. Edwina prayed someone would realize they were gone while there was still enough light for Declan to track them. Brin couldn’t take much more of this.

She glanced back, saw the child hanging limp and glassy-eyed in Lone Tree’s grip. In shock, but still alive.

Hurry,
she called silently to her husband.

The roar of the creek grew louder as they moved out of the trees and into a small clearing. Ahead, a footbridge hung over the rushing water. They crossed it, then left the path and ducked into the brush. A few yards into the trees, they came to a horse tied to a sapling. It had painted markings and a feather attached beneath the braided leather of the bosal halter. Instead of a saddle, a dirty woven blanket was tied to its back, with two leather loops for stirrups.

Lone Tree tossed Brin onto the horse’s back, then vaulted up behind her. He motioned for Edwina to give him her arm.

She hesitated, sensing that with the tangled brush all around them and the Indian distracted with Brin and his horse, this would be her best chance of escape. Then realizing she could never leave the child alone with this madman, she took Lone Tree’s arm and swung up behind him.

She hated to even touch him, but as soon as they cleared the trees, he kicked the horse into a lope and she had no choice but to grip his waist to keep from falling. After turning onto a rough track, they climbed steadily upward in a zigzagging series of switchbacks. As they continued higher and higher, the town spread below them.

No light showed in the hotel kitchen.

No voice called out.

No one except Sally Brodie even knew they were gone.

D
eclan had just left the sheriff’s office when Joe Bill ran up, his chest heaving. “She’s hurt, Pa! You gotta come!”

“Who?”

“Ma—my real ma! Amos, too! I think the Indian got them. R.D. went for Doc, but she’s bleeding all over the place and I can’t find Ed.”

He shoved his son back toward the office. “Get Buck. Bring him to the hotel. And don’t leave his side!” Before the words were out, Declan was running, his bootheels thudding loudly on the boardwalk.

Lone Tree had finally come. But why would he hurt Sally? And what about his other children? And Ed?