Summer Breeze (38 page)

Rachel shot up from the bench.
That voice.
Her heart was pounding hard, and an awful coldness trickled over her skin like ice water.
That voice.
Black spots danced before her eyes.
Oh, my God.
It was the voice in her nightmares. Her breath suddenly hitching, she stumbled backward toward the house.
Him
—it's
him.
She fell on the steps.

Scrambled back to her feet. The world swirled upside down and then came right again. Oxygen, she needed oxygen. She hugged a porch post to hold herself erect, fighting frantically for breath.

Staggered away, trying to reach the doorway. Fell into the house, her legs so watery that they would no longer support her weight.
Him, him, him.

Sprawled on her belly, she grabbed the ironwork to swing it closed. Dragged herself to her knees and tried desperately to fit the key into the lock, only in her panic she couldn't hit the hole. Her numb fingers lost their grip on the metal bow, and the key fell to the floor. With a sob, she twisted sharply at the waist to seize hold of the thick wooden door, shifting out of the way to pull it closed. The portal slammed shut with a loud thunk. Pulling herself to her feet, she engaged the deadlocks. Then, with violently trembling hands, she dropped the bar into place.

Him.
If she lived for another hundred years, she would never forget that voice. Panic swamped her. She staggered to a corner, dropped to her rump, and pressed her back to the walls.
Him.
He'd come to kill her. She knew it.
Oh, God.
She needed Joseph.
Joseph.
Thinking of him calmed her somewhat. She was safe inside her kitchen, just like always. She had the shotgun to defend herself. She wasn't sitting unsuspecting on the grass along the creek this time. Oh, no. This time, she could fight back.

The thought sent her crawling across the floor to the

gun rack. She struggled to her feet, still dizzy from lack of breath. Shells, she needed shells. She pulled so hard on the ammunition drawer that it came clear off the runners and crashed to the floor. She grabbed handfuls of ammunition and shoved it into her skirt pockets. Then she wrested the gun from its niche. With violently trembling hands, she managed to break open the barrels, load both, and snap them back into place.

On weak legs, she made her way to the wood safe, flung open the door, and dropped to her knees to peer out.
Joseph.
She had a wonderful life to look forward to now—a husband who loved her, the possibility of children and happiness and laughter. She wasn't about to die and miss out on all that. Oh, no. She would be ready. He wouldn't have such easy pickings this time.

She tried to listen, but her breathing was so ragged that it was hard to hear anything. She gulped and tried to hold her breath. Was that a horse trotting off? She gulped again and closed her eyes on a silent prayer. Then she peered out the wood safe again.

"Darby?" she called softly. "You there?"

No answer. Had he left?
No, no, no.

"Darby," she called just a little louder.

What if
he
was out there? The thought had her slamming the door of the wood safe closed. As the latch dropped, she pressed her back to the wall.
Okay.
She was fine. Darby wasn't answering, but she was safe. Her familiar kitchen was just like always, everything locked and barred closed. No one could get in. She was just fine. Let him try to come in one of the doors. Let him just
try.

Time passed. Rachel's heartbeat slowed. Her

breathing became regular again. More important, she was able to think more rationally.
Ray.
Darby had called the man Ray. She would tell Joseph when he got home. Joseph would go after him. Ray would be removed from the face of the earth. That was a good way to think of it.
Removed.
She'd never have to worry again. Joseph would go after him, and from now on she'd be safe because she finally knew his name.

A gray fog clouded her vision. Rachel blinked, tried to focus.
No,
she told herself. No more running away in her mind. She had to hold on to his name.
Ray.
And he worked for Amanda Hollister.

The gray fog grew thicker. Rachel blinked, passed a hand over her eyes.
No.
After the grayness came blackness. She knew that all too well. It had come over her the first night when Joseph had knocked on her door to tell her Darby had been shot. She had to be strong this time. She had to keep her head. Her life might depend on it, and she needed to live so she could have Joseph's babies. She had to live because he had given her so much to live for. She couldn't let herself succumb to the blackness when that awful man might be out there.

Ray.
She knew his voice, and now she knew his name. A terrible pain lanced through her head. She rested the shotgun across the bend of her lap and drew up her knees to rest her throbbing brow on them. Images pelted her. Horrible images.
No face.
Her ma, falling—falling—falling. Her head bouncing on the grass when she landed on her back.
No face. Blood-everywhere blood.
Visions of crimson-soaked pink flashed through Rachel's, mind.
Tansy's pretty little

dress.
And then red on yellow.
Denver, her loyal dog, lying limp on the ground.
And Daniel. A picture blinked.
Daniel, with a chicken drumstick still caught between his teeth and a reddish-black hole suddenly
appearing between his blank blue eyes.

The blackness tried to move over her, but Rachel kept fighting against it.
Ray.
She would forget his name if she gave in to the blackness. She'd wake up and she wouldn't remember anything. She couldn't allow that to happen, not this time. Oh, how it
hurt.
Remembering
hurt
so much, and it was horrible beyond comprehension. But she had to do it. For Tansy. For her ma. For Daniel. And for her pa, who'd used the only weapon he had, his beloved fiddle, to try to protect them. He'd sprung up from the grass and charged the shooter, shattering the string instrument on the man's shoulder.

Rachel raised her head, staring blankly at nothing, her mind replaying events that she had blacked out for years. She and Daniel had been arguing over the last piece of chicken in the basket, and Daniel, being stronger than she, had wrestled the drumstick from her hand. Grinning impishly, he'd sunk his teeth into the meat.
Kaboom.

Rachel shuddered and closed her eyes.
Oh, God.
Daniel's head. Blood, all over the blanket, even before he fell. Blood, splattered all over her. Rachel remembered staring stupidly at the blood, not understanding where it had come from, and then seeing Daniel fall as if a gigantic force had struck him. She had scrambled to her knees, screaming, "Daniel? Daniel!"

Rachel's stomach convulsed, and she gagged,

bringing up only gall to wet her skirt.
Daniel.
The blackness edged close again. She shoved it away.

Joseph's voice whispered in her mind.
You mentioned once that you see Denver leaping up to bite the man's
leg, and that the man pulls his revolver and shoots him between the eyes. What else do you see,
sweetheart? Picture his boot. Picture his leg. Is there anything special about the gun
—
or possibly the
saddle? If you see his leg, if you see his hand holding the gun, you must see other things.

Rachel gagged again, bringing up more than bile this time. But she scarcely noticed because she was seeing Denver, her wonderful, loyal Denver, throwing himself at the man's leg, seeing the man reach for his gun, seeing him point the barrel at her dog's head.
Push past it. Don't think of poor Denver. See the man's leg,
his boot, the saddle.
And there it was, the horror that had skirted at the edges of the blackness for so long, a brand on the rump of the sorrel horse, an H within a circle.

Rachel started to shake so violently that she could barely hug her legs. Her family's brand, only altered. The Bar H ranch had always used an H underscored by a bar to brand their animals, When Amanda had left the family fold, she had altered that brand, keeping the H but encompassing it with a circle. It had been different enough from the original Hollister brand to be legally recorded, enabling her to use the first letter of her surname to mark her horses and livestock, just as she always had.
The Circle H.
And Rachel had seen it on the rump of the killer's horse. For all these years, she'd blacked it out, but it was there in her mind now, like a photograph hanging on the wall. He'd been riding a Circle H horse.

As a very small child, Rachel had adored her aunt Amanda. No one had understood her so well. Mannie, Rachel had called her, still so young that she couldn't say Amanda. In her mind's eye, she could see herself racing toward her aunt, much as Little Ace ran toward Joseph now, her arms spread wide, her heart swelling with love. She had wanted nothing more than to feel Mannie's arms around her.

Rachel had loved her mother. No doubt about that. But she had adored Amanda, who'd never scolded when she got her dress dirty and who'd always seemed to take pleasure in her mischievousness as Rachel's mother never could.

A sob jerked through Rachel's body.
Mannie.
Long after Amanda had left the Bar H, Rachel had frequently gone to see her. Her aunt had always been ready to drop everything and spend time with her. Once, she might show her the new foals. Another time, she might take Rachel into the house for milk and cookies.

When Rachel had had problems, she'd always been able to count on Mannie for solutions. Mannie, her best friend.

Rachel's mother, Marie, had always understood. Looking back on it now, Rachel wished she could give her ma just one more hug for being such a wonderful mother. They'd been so different, Rachel and her mother, Marie always fussing about every little thing, Rachel ever ready to traipse through the pigpen with no thought for being a lady. Whenever Rachel had had a problem that her mother couldn't solve, Marie had sent Rachel to town on silly errands—to buy special ribbon for a dress, or to pick up a book that Marie was yearning to read, or to purchase some peppermint to satisfy a sudden craving. And while in town, Rachel could slip over to visit Mannie, her father none the wiser.

Love.
It was strange how it went every which way and doubled back on itself. Rachel had loved her ma very much, but it had been only Mannie who could chase away her tears and make her laugh. There was no explaining it. Her ma had just shrugged, saying that Rachel and Amanda were kindred spirits, one the very spit of the other. Sometimes it made Rachel feel guilty, for on some level she'd always known that no one loved her as much as her ma did.

When Rachel had first started growing breasts, she was so upset that her mother sent her off to stay all night with Katy, a childhood friend. Only Rachel didn't go to Katy's, and her mother had known she wouldn't. It had all been a plot to fool Rachel's pa, so he'd never guess that his daughter was off with Mannie, getting her head filled with all manner of nonsense. Rachel and Mannie had talked grown-up, female talk about the unwelcome growths that were appearing on Rachel's chest, and by morning Rachel had been able to look at herself in the mirror and shrug.

Teats.
Cows had them. Mares had them. And Rachel was growing some, too. It was necessary because, someday, she'd have babies, and she'd need teats to feed them. Until then, they were just
there,
and she had to put up with them.

Rachel's ma had somehow understood that nobody

could communicate with Rachel better than Mannie. And so it went until that fateful day along the creek when nearly everyone Rachel loved had died.

Remembering, Rachel clenched her teeth against the pain. Losing all of them would have been unbearable no matter
what.
But to grab her brother and then look up to see a CIRCLE H on his killer's horse? Rachel had
known
that brand. Every time she visited Mannie, she would see it—on the cows, on the horses, and even on Mannie's saddles. It was so familiar, a variation of the brand that had been in her family for generations, a trademark that signified
Hollister.

For years, Rachel had been unable to write the letter H. Now she knew why, and a murderous rage roiled through her.
Mannie.
It had been the worst kind of betrayal. Her aunt hadn't been there that day to fire the rifle. But she had hired it done.

That
was what Rachel had been running from for the last five years.
Mannie,
her beloved aunt, had paid someone to slaughter all of Rachel's family—and even Rachel herself. It was too horrible to accept.

She raised her head, feeling weak and shaky, but also stronger. Mannie had betrayed her, but Joseph never would. She couldn't huddle forever in a corner, afraid because one wicked woman had broken her heart and destroyed her ability to trust.

An odd smell reached Rachel's nostrils. She blinked and focused, staring for a moment at a table leg. What
was
that smell? She sniffed. Then she set the shotgun aside and pushed to her feet. The smell was really strong, and it grew stronger as she circled the kitchen and came to the water closet, which Darby

had added on to the house after her parents' death.
Kerosene?
Rachel stepped fully into the enclosure. Kerosene, definitely kerosene. She knew the scent so well. For five years, all she'd had for light were kerosene lanterns and an occasional candle.

She heard a faint whoosh. Spun in a full circle. What was that? She stepped back out into the kitchen.
Whoosh, whoosh, WHOOSH.
She spun again, her eyes bulging from their sockets, her ears straining to hear.
Kerosene, igniting.
She'd heard the sound a thousand times if she'd heard it once. After touching a match to a kerosene-soaked wick, a whoosh always followed. Only now it wasn't a wick that had been lighted.

Rachel moved to the center of the kitchen, knowing even before she saw smoke squeezing up through the floorboards that someone had set fire to the house. A crackling sound surrounded her.