Stages of Trust

Chapters 12 - 20

by Redwood

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.

This is a sequel to my story called, “A Trust Betrayed.” This story is not really based on any episode, but it takes place sometime after the episode “Hazard,” from the first season.

Chapter 12

As soon as she realized Heath’s eyes were open, she tapped him on the arm and offered him the canteen full of water. He took it from her gratefully, poured a small amount into his hand before splashing it across his eyes, and then, placed his damp hand on the back of his neck. He leaned back into the corner again with his eyes closed for another few seconds, before he cracked his eyes open and took a long drink. Then, he grinned at her lopsidedly, as he wiped off the rim with his shirtsleeve, closed it, and handed it back.

Watching him, she took the canteen and stared down at it. His simple act of trying to clean it before she drank from it, now carried out meticulously for the second time, symbolized for her just how wide the gap between them had become.

Did he believe that he was beneath her, neither related to her nor in any way connected to the name Barkley? She continued to look down at the container. Then, she deliberately drank from it, removed her lace handkerchief from her sleeve with a practiced movement, and carefully wiped it around the rim.

Then, she offered it back to him.

His eyes, at first only slightly open and barely watching her, suddenly widened as what she had done slowly worked its way in past the hammering of his head. He raised his head and stared into her grey, glittering eyes, the eyes that bored into him and challenged him to wonder why she had done the same for him that he had for her.

He raised one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth, before taking the canteen and nodding while lifting it into the air in salute to her. Then, he took another drink. This time, he did not wipe the rim, but merely closed the top and placed it on the floor behind his long legs, wedging it behind the small bag of provisions she had placed there earlier.

Leaning back, he let a small groan escape from his lips as he brought his hand up to squeeze his temples between his thumb and four fingers.

“Heath,” she said, “The doctor gave me some medicine for you.” She leaned over to pull out the bag, but he quickly pushed himself forward again and stopped her, his hand gentle on her arm.

“Please,” he started, “No medicine, Mrs. Barkley.” As she sat back up reluctantly and looked at him hard, he added, “I don’t half know what’s what from one minute ta the next as it is, an’ any foul-tastin’ medicine is only gonna make that worse. I’ll be alright.”

“But your head, . . . .” She started to protest, but remembered her resolve of a few weeks ago to respect his choices. Sighing instead, she nodded.

Then, she asked, “Heath, what do you mean, you hardly know what’s what from one minute to the next?”

He shook his head slightly, and dropped his hand to let it rest on the open window. “Everything is so mixed up.” He paused again, and she could see him struggling to sort it all out for her, before he continued, “For a few minutes this mornin’, I thought I was the Jehu who was supposed ta be drivin’ this stage.” He stopped as he saw her eyes widen slightly at his statement, and his general confusion turned to worry once more about how she fit into it all.

She reached out to him as soon as she realized her reaction had stopped him. “It’s alright, Heath. You just surprised me. Please continue.”

He nodded and said slowly, “But, I know who you are, an’ we don’t belong here, neither one of us. We’re supposed ta be at the ranch in Stockton, both of us.”

She let a full smile spread across her face as she took his hand in hers. The hope that he was going to remember everything rose to the surface, and she clung to his hand and reached out for that possibility.

For just a moment, he narrowed his eyes and just stared back at her. Suddenly, her brilliant smile and grey eyes, along with her fingers entwined with his, seemed so familiar, so comfortable, that he wanted to reach out and hug her to him, to hold her close and kiss the top of her silver hair.

Then, he blinked and asked, his breath rasping a little in his throat as a sharp pain sliced through his forehead, “Mrs. Barkley, how long. . . how long have I worked on your family’s ranch? . . . How long have I worked for your son?”

With her hopes dashed like the broken wagon wheel she could see far below them on the rocky slope now bordering the road, she tried hard to leave the smile in place on her face.

But, she found herself crying tears for them all inside. That’s why he had wiped off the canteen. She’d been right after all. He saw no connection between them, except for what he assumed was his job as a hired hand on the ranch where she lived.

She took a deep breath and hoped that her answer was the one Doctor Merar would advise her to give if he were here, “Heath, you’ve been with us for almost eight months.” Then, determined to understand the extent of his memories, she asked carefully, “Do you remember Nick?”

His face lit up at the mention of the dark-haired man’s name. His voice, despite the pain in his left temple that he had begun to massage almost without thinking, became more animated and confident than she had heard it in days.

“Yes, Ma’am. Nick Barkley is the best rancher I’ve ever worked with. He’s a bit ornery at times, but he’s like a she-bear watchin’ out for her cubs, when it comes ta takin’ care of his men. And, he’s easy ta like, despite his growl.”

At this apt description of life with her middle son, Victoria smiled sincerely at him. Then, she said, “Nick is so proud of all that you have helped him accomplish since you came to us, Heath. In fact, you are very special to all of us.” Her grey eyes shone, though she tried to keep him from seeing the depths of her love for him, afraid it would only add to his confusion.

He looked back at her for another few seconds before he closed his eyes tightly to avoid the pain of the morning sun as it glanced off of some nearby rocks. Then, suddenly, the coach hit a particularly bad bump, and they were both nearly thrown from their seats. Reaching out for her, he held onto her tiny frame as they both struggled to keep their balance.

Heath watched as the trees blurred by the open windows of the stage. He shook his pounding head to clear it, as a repeated sound in his ears made him think that he was hearing gunfire.

When the silver-haired woman beside him raised her head as if she were hearing it as well, he finally realized that the sound was not just inside his head. A shout from Ellis, above them in the driver’s box, confirmed that something was wrong.

He leaned out of the window and looked back. However, he could see nothing behind them except a curve in the road. Beyond that, he could only guess that they were under attack, and, from the increased speed of the stage, that Ellis must be trying to get them to a safer place from which to make a stand.

“Get down on the floor an’ hold on!” Heath yelled to her, as he pulled her from the seat beside him and pushed her to the stagecoach floor. “Stay down!”

Ignoring the pounding of his head, he opened the door with one hand and deftly stood up, holding onto the outside of the coach. Then, with one foot on the seat across from where he had been sitting, he climbed up until he could put one foot in the open window from outside, while hanging onto the driver’s box. Though he could still see nothing but the bend in the rock-surrounded road behind them, he closed the door with his other foot, and continued pulling himself up, hand over hand, until he could climb into the box next to Ellis.

The man was leaning forward, working the reins furiously, urging the horses to pull with every fiber of muscle, while somehow keeping them under control for the rapid descent he knew was fast approaching.

“There’s five of ‘em!” Ellis yelled.

Heath grabbed the unused rifle next to the harried driver, and, keeping his body low, he lay down flat on the stage roof and edged back toward the boot to get a better shot at the riders chasing them. Though he could not see them yet, he knew they would appear in a matter of seconds.

As he waited, he realized that being here felt natural, somehow. He had been comfortable in the job of shotgun, the job that he and Haverty had traded off many times on just this run several years back.

But, just as suddenly, with that returning comfort came a distant memory that shook him to the core.

He looked around and confirmed it. He knew exactly where they were, and he knew that Ellis had very little time now to slow the horses before the next tight curve.

If he couldn’t slow them. . . .

Shaking his head at the slight dizziness that assailed him, he forced himself to concentrate. Ducking at the sound of a pistol, he sighted in on the closest rider and got off a shot that hit the man square in the chest before he could fire at them again. The man toppled from his horse.

Despite the fact that the now rider-less horse nearly caused the one behind to fall, the second rider quickly fired two rounds at the careening stage. Heath’s next shot, however, silenced the man. His lifeless body fell from the back of his horse and was drug a ways before his boot finally came loose from the bouncing stirrup.

Worried about the other three riders, Heath’s attention was suddenly riveted back to the stage beneath him, however, as he realized they were not slowing. Turning his head, he saw Ellis slumped forward in the box. The reins, still held fast in his hands, were almost pulling the man toward the hooves of the two wheelers below him.

Heath scrambled backwards, shoved the butt of the rifle down in the box, and reached down to haul the man’s limp, bloody form back from the edge. Then, as dizziness threatened to send him toward the same fate, he wrapped his arms around Ellis and struggled to take the eight reins in his own hands. As he replaced Ellis’ hands with his own, he used the same familiar pattern, with the two near pairs of reins in his left hand, the two off pairs in his right. Heath fought away the dizziness and pulled himself back to the seat, taking the dead man, now caught between his arms, back with him.

Fighting the dizziness and the now constant ringing in his ears, he called on strength he didn’t remember possessing to haul the team to a more controlled pace. Bracing his feet on the box, he yelled, “Whoa! Whoa, there!”

As he felt them slow, he knew he was making a desperate decision for both of them---for Mrs. Barkley, for himself. He was trading an almost certain death on the rocks below the curve for a possible death at the hands of the riders behind them. But, even with the pounding headache and the dark edges threatening his vision making it difficult to think, he knew the tiny woman waiting below would agree with his decision.

The weight of the massive coach made it difficult for the team to respond quickly, the downhill momentum pushing them beyond their capacity to instantly obey his determined hands.

Well before the team crow-hopped to a downhill stop, the riders overtook them.

He continued concentrate, working with the team, even as one of the riders pointed his pistol toward Heath and started yelling for him to stop.

Shaking his head to clear it of the dizziness that continued to consume him, he heard the rider cock his gun, and yell, “Stop them, or I’ll put it right between your eyes, Charlie!”

Heath managed to just stare back at the redheaded rider, without retort, as he finally brought the team down.

The cold, dark eyes stared back at him, as the man kept his pistol trained on Heath.

As the team stood with sides heaving and harnesses rattling from their hair-raising descent, Heath quickly wrapped the reins to keep them from tangling, and he shook off the dizziness again as he leaned forward to make sure of Ellis’ condition.

When he could not find a pulse, he knew his only priority was to get to Mrs. Barkley. He eased Ellis off of him and lay him in the seat. Then, he stood up and, with his head spinning, began making his way shakily to the ground. But, he was brought up short by a shot that slammed into Ellis’ still body just above him. Heath turned and glared over his shoulder into the dark eyes and grinning face.

“Climb down slowly, but throw that shooting iron down first, Charlie, you hear?”

As Heath complied, a dark-headed rider dismounted nearby and walked forward, reaching to open the coach door. Heath jumped into the man’s path, putting this new threat in front of him and into the line of fire of any bullet fired by the snarling redhead beyond them.

The man before him tried to strike at Heath to knock him out of the way, cursing at him all the while. But, Heath blocked the on-coming blow, grabbed the offending fist as it went by his head, and stepped behind him to lock the man’s arm up and under his shoulder blade. Holding onto him, he pulled the dark-headed man’s pistol from his holster, and aimed it back at the redheaded man’s face.

The surprised man on horseback started cursing at him and yelling, “Give it up, Charlie. You ain’t gonna get outta this alive no way!”

In a flurry of sudden movement, Heath slammed the gun butt into the back of the man’s head from behind, shoved the limp form forward, and as the redhead fired at his retreating back and missed, he turned to leap inside the open door of the stage behind him. Leaning in low, he grabbed Victoria by the arm as he jumped over her, and he pulled her behind him as they exited the stage through the other door. Then, Heath pushed Victoria in front of him, as he fired at the third man approaching from their side of the stage on foot beside the lead horses. The man dived backwards, rolling between the horses.

Following her closely, he knew the redhead would be right behind them. As she ran up a slight incline and behind a large boulder above the road, rock fragments from a well-placed bullet disintegrated into dust that sprayed him as he dove in after her.

Turning quickly, he fired back at the man beneath the horses who had regained his feet and was chasing them. The man fell back, seeing nothing, a bullet between his eyes.

In the quiet that followed, Heath glanced down to see Mrs. Barkley sitting at his feet, a look of pain on her face. She was holding her ankle with one hand, but Heath noticed that she had picked up a stout-looking limb and held it fast in the other. It was too short for use as a cane, but not too short for a weapon.

He grinned as he said quietly, his attention, despite the fierce throbbing of his head, on the stagecoach beyond them, “I’m glad you’re on my side.” Then, sobering, he asked, “You alright?”

She nodded and reached up to grasp his hand, squeezing it in gratitude that they were both alive. . . for the moment.

Chapter 13

Darkness in the mountains, even on this side of the divide, would come quickly. In places, he knew the sun’s rays would only penetrate the dense growth at their strongest, and the trees would cause long shadows well before sundown in others.

With the approaching darkness, would come a sudden change in temperature, the heat of the day quickly traded for a windy coolness that would permeate everything it touched.

He knew, now that it was late afternoon, it wouldn’t be long. In fact, he didn’t understand what was taking them so long. With two of them out there and only one gun in here behind the rocks, they could have come in on them hours ago.

Maybe they just wanted the two of them to come out, looking for water or food or warm blankets, and make it easy on them.

He shook his head, willing himself to stay awake. He had given up trying to stay on his feet hours ago, but he had so far managed to remain fairly alert. Only for a little while, when the sun was at its most glaring, had he let her take the pistol and keep watch while he had slumped to the rock-strewn ground, covering his eyes with his arm to keep the blazing light from searing straight through his head.

He had awakened to find her moving around above him by the boulder that shielded him, trying to get off a shot at one of the two remaining men who was sneaking in on them from the right.

Rising with effort, he had gently relieved her of the gun while watching, in the direction she had pointed out, for the man to emerge. However, the man had not shown himself again.

Now, they were each on opposite ends of the rock, seated, but trying to watch intently to keep the two men beyond from coming in on them without warning. She held the limb, while he held the only pistol.

Again, he shook his head, then, rested it against the lingering warmth of the rock beside him. The pain behind his eyes made him want to curl up on the ground and cradle his head in both arms, letting tears fall from his eyes as he screamed out his agony.

Instead, he pushed the side of his face against the rock, trying to share part of the pain with the rough, warm surface. The dizziness had abated somewhat, but, if anything, the pounding behind his eyes was worse, much worse.

He was beginning to see dark edges around his vision, and the ringing in his ears made him fear that he was going to pass out.

Suddenly, he heard her whispered voice, “Heath! This side, Heath!”

Moving to her side as fast as he could force himself, he saw one man moving from rock to rock, working toward them a little at a time. He shook his head again, and he wondered where the redheaded man was. Aiming carefully, he tried to time the man’s next move, and he fired.

The bullet careened off the rock behind the quickly moving target.

Heath tapped on her shoulder and pointed toward her, then toward the man’s position. Then, he pointed toward himself, and back to the other side of the rock. She nodded, and quickly cast her eyes around behind them, into the rocks above.

He knew she, too, was worried about the other man.

Crouching down, he moved to the other side of the boulder, and scanned the surrounding terrain. Then, he leaned back against the rock, three feet away from her and checked above and behind them. Repeating this series of actions again and again, he struggled to stay alert.

After a few moments, she reached out for him and finally got his attention. She motioned for him to come back. He returned to her side, but he couldn’t see any movement beyond them.

Suddenly, he heard a noise, and rising from his crouch, he turned just in time to see the redheaded man step from behind a rock to their rear, his rifle leveled at them.

“Well, lookee here, Jed. A lady, and from the looks of her, a finely bred one at that!” The grinning man snarled happily as he called to his partner.

He advanced on them both, his rifle now aimed at Victoria, and his finger on the trigger. Heath knew that the pistol he held was the only chance they had, but he did not want to risk that the man would shoot if he used it----and, he knew his own accuracy was off, as the blackness began descending on him again.

“Drop it, Charlie. I done tole you before, it’s only gonna end one way if you shoot.”

Fearing her fate, both if he complied and if he didn’t, Heath hesitated to give up their only weapon against these men. But, as the second man, with gun in hand, stepped from behind the rock they had guarded for hours, Heath knew he had no other option.

“I’m not gonna tell you again. Drop it or I’ll drop her,” the redhead snarled.

Heath caught her eyes and held them, as he tossed the pistol to the ground. She smiled sadly at him, and noticing his unsteadiness, she moved closer to him and backed him up a half step, with her free hand on his arm, to lean heavily against the boulder.

The redheaded man advanced on them both, as his partner stood guard, his weapon at the ready----despite the way he still rubbed the back of his head with his other hand, rubbed the swelling that Heath had put there earlier.

“What d’ya think, Jed? The lady looks ready to defend herself, don’t she?” Snarling at her again, he demanded, “Drop the stick, Woman, or he’ll shoot you deader than yesterday’s spit.”

Smiling at her as she dropped the thick limb, his cold, cruel eyes studied her. Then, he reached out and grabbed Victoria by the chin and forced her to look into his dark eyes. Heath pushed forward, away from the rock to stop him, but the dark-haired guard stepped in and pointed his gun at her head.

Caught between fear for her life and fear for her safety, Heath stopped. He could only watch as the redhead pulled her close to his dark, filthy shirt, then, backhanded her across the face, sending her reeling away. Her cry as she stumbled, her injured ankle giving way, tore at Heath’s heart and spurred him into instant action.

He leapt at the man, knocking him to the ground and rolling over him with his fists flying. The man took several blows to the ribs and face before his partner managed to throw Heath off of him, as he grabbed the blond from behind, pulled him up, and shoved him into the dirt.

Struggling back to his feet, Heath saw the fear in her eyes for both of them as she tried unsuccessfully to get to her feet. He lunged back in, trying to knock both of the men to the ground and come up with a weapon. He was partially successful, and the redhead hit the ground again, but, the dark-headed man slipped out of his grasp.

The man brought his pistol butt down hard, catching Heath’s right shoulder in his blow.

Stunned, Heath dropped to one knee, as the redhead got to his feet above him. The man deliberately walked over to Victoria and hauled her to her feet. Dragging her roughly by one arm, he held her up in front of Heath and said, “I don’t know why you think this lady’s worth dying for, Boy, but I can assure you she is so high above you she don’t know you exist. If you die here trying to save her, she’ll never give you another thought.”

Then, he ran his other hand through her silver hair and twisted his fingers in it, yanking her head back, and making her cry out, though she had been determined not to.

Heath tried to get to his feet once more, but the redhead nodded to his partner, who shoved him back to his knees.

He said, “Rip off that bandage there, Jed. I wanna see what’s been ailing this poor boy.”

With the dirt-covered bandage removed from Heath’s head, the redheaded man leaned in and touched the stitched-up gash curiously. “Well, now, it looks like you might have a powerful headache already from that, huh, Boy?”

He looked at Jed and nodded.

The butt of the gun descended again, catching Heath on the left side of the skull, just behind his ear and a few inches from the gash. He fell to all fours, biting off a piece of a cry, with his teeth digging into his lower lip, as the pain shot through his head and caused everything to explode in a blinding white light.

From far away, he could hear her calling his name.

“Heath! Heath!”

As soon as she said his name aloud, she knew she had made a mistake.

The redheaded man wheeled her around to face him, his hot, overwhelming breath hitting her full in the face and his eyes boring into hers. “How do you know his name? He’s nothing but a stagecoach Charlie! What is he to you?”

He raised his hand above her as if to strike her again in the face.

She deliberately cast her eyes down at his boots, shaking her head and saying nothing.

He snarled again, “I could kill you both right here and now, Woman!” He lowered his hand and shook her by the back of her neck. Slowly, she raised her eyes to stare into his.

Reaching down, the redheaded man grabbed Heath by the collar and hauled him back up to a kneeling position at his feet. Then, pulling Heath’s head up by his hair, he started laughing at the torment he was causing them both.

He snarled, “I’m not done with you yet, Boy, not yet. You killed three of my men, and I’m not done with you.

Then, he added, “I think I’ll find out just how far you’ll go to protect this high and mighty lady, first, though. Are you gallant enough to be willing to die for some woman on a coach you don’t know? Or are you and your courage just bluffing?”

He laughed again and shoved Heath into the dirt with his boot. Then, he kicked him in the stomach. When he received no responding cry of pain, he kicked him harder and said, “But, when I’m done with you, Boy, you’ll have the pleasure of knowing that I’m gonna keep this fine lady that you seem to think so highly of. At least, I’m gonna keep her ‘til I find someone willing to pay a fine price for her return. She belongs to someone with money, and I aim to find out who.”

Heath’s eyes opened a crack, and he looked beyond the redhead, finding her grey eyes with his, from where he lay in the dirt.

Why didn’t she tell them who she was? Maybe they wouldn’t hurt her if they knew they were right------that she would be more valuable to them if she were unharmed.

“Jed, he looks like he’s gonna pass out. And, that would just plain ruin my fun. Pour some water on him, or something. You, Boy, don’t you die on me, yet. Like I said, I’m not done with you.”

Returning with a canteen, Jed poured it over Heath’s head.

Heath rolled over and got to his knees, shaking the water out of his hair and face, and splattering the dark-headed man, who stepped back away from him. Then, he struggled to get one boot up and under him, but he could go no further.

Again, he tried to look up at her, unable to find the breath to speak, but willing her to tell them who she was. Then, he closed his eyes and dipped his head, struggling just to breathe.

She fought with her captor then, as he held her by one arm. She kicked his shin and hit at his face with her loose arm. Surprised, he lost his hold of her, and she dropped to her knees next to Heath in the dirt. When the man above her tried to pull her away, she turned and glared at him, her hands on Heath’s heaving shoulders.

“He’s hurt.” She said, her voice even and full of steel. “Give me some water. Let me take care of him. Then, you can do whatever you want with me.”

The redhead raised his eyebrows, as he glanced over at his partner, and, then, he just laughed. “I don’t know why you care about what happens to him, Lady. He’s nothing to you. . . but, it won’t matter what you do, we’re gonna kill him a’fore it’s over with, anyway. You’d better save your worrying for yourself.”

She glared up at the man, as she untied her brown bandana expectantly.

The dark-headed Jed looked to the other man. “Do ya’ want I should give the water to her, Mason?” he asked.

The grinning leader nodded and shrugged his shoulders. “The longer she keeps him outta the dirt, the more fun for me.”

Jed handed her the canteen. She poured water onto her bandana and gently turned Heath’s face toward her. She used the cool cloth to revive him a bit, and, as his eyes opened, she could see the pain behind them. But, he never made a sound. He just looked at her, puzzled again at how much compassion and tenderness she continued to offer him.

She handed him the canteen so he could drink, and after he did, she smiled at him slightly------until he deliberately stared into her eyes and struggled to wipe off the rim with a piece of his torn shirt, before handing it back to her.

She paused, her hand with the cold, wet cloth in it pressed against the left side of his head, staring at him, her eyes narrowed slightly.

They had already been through this once.

Why was he doing this again now, wiping off the canteen for her, as if he. . . ?

Sudden understanding hit her. He, too, had realized that it was better for them both if they didn’t reveal that they were any more than stage shotgun and passenger.

“Heath,” was all she could whisper as she took it and drank from the canteen.

It hurt her heart so much to see him like this, see him like this and be unable to show or tell him how she felt.

But, though Heath did not know exactly who she was, she knew he was right about this.

The cruelty of the man above them was very evident. Something told her not to let this Mason, who was watching them intently, know how important Heath was to her.

She had no doubt that the man would see it as a weakness to exploit, hurting one of them to get at the other. And, even if Heath did not remember her relationship to him, she knew with certainty that he would continue to protect her as long as he could, no matter what.

Heath looked at her with worry in his eyes, but he offered her a lop-sided smile with one corner of his mouth-----both in encouragement for her actions and in thanks for her continued concern.

Something tucked away deep inside told him to trust her.

He didn’t understand why she was acting the way she was toward him. And, he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly about the situation they were in-----at least beyond his recognition of the innate cruelty in the man that stood above them.

And, he still didn’t understand why she didn’t just tell them who she was. Her safety could depend on it.

Looking into her searching grey eyes, he knew he was missing some vital pieces of information, some critical details that might cause him to say or do the wrong thing. He couldn’t think, the pain dragging him toward the blackness that he fought to keep away, . . . even if just for a little longer.

He knew he didn’t fully understand all that was going on, but he knew he trusted her.

Somehow, he needed to let her know, to know that he had placed his trust for both of them in her hands. Very deliberately, he reached up, across his chest, and squeezed the small hand still gripping his shoulder.

When she smiled at him again and gripped his hand in return, he knew that she had just offered him her trust, as well as having accepted all that he had to give----his trust, his last remaining strength, and his courage.

As the redheaded man called Mason pulled her away from him once more, Heath raised his head slightly and winked at her.

No matter what it took, no matter what he had to do, he would find a way to get her out of this, away from these men and out of these mountains.

No matter what, she would return safely to the family she loved.

Chapter 14

“You’ve got guts, Lady. I’ll give you that!” Mason snarled at her, as he tugged on her arm, pulled her around the large rock and back toward the stage. Her right ankle was throbbing now, making it difficult to keep on her feet, but he didn’t notice. He hollered, “Jed, bring that Charlie!”

As he pulled her forward, she saw that the ground on the other side of the stage was littered with the contents of their luggage and a few boxes. A couple of empty bottles of liquor lay scattered about in the dirt. The sight helped explain what had taken the two men so long to come after them, that and the sight of the sheer drop off on the other side of the rocks behind them. She had not noticed it when she and Heath had dashed in that direction earlier.

For a few seconds, she was distracted from their current plight by the thought of what could have happened if Ellis and Heath had not been able to stop the stage in time. . . .

Her attention returned abruptly to Mason, who had shaken her and was now grinning into her face, “I hope you don’t mind watching, Lady, ‘cause that boy’s gonna pay for killing my men. I ain’t never seen no Jehu that could shoot like that, but it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I let somebody get away with what he done today.”

Victoria made no sound, as the angry man snatched loose the leather tie that kept his lariat bound to his saddle, but she was thinking hard. If she told them Heath was her son, would it make any difference? Would it help somehow, especially if she offered them money to release the two of them or told the men who she was.

But, just as quickly as she asked the question of herself, she knew the answer.

No.

This man beside her was pure evil. Like the alcohol on his breath, he reeked of it----with his snarling grin and his black, bottomless pits for eyes. There was no conscience inside this man. Finding out what they had tried to keep from him, would probably do nothing but infuriate the man more, and she shivered at the thought that he would do worse to Heath just at the idea of enjoying her suffering as she watched.

Then, she realized with a start, that Mason would probably be just as inclined to hurt her, so he could enjoy Heath’s pain at hearing the cries she knew she would not be able to silence. And, she had no doubt that Heath’s lack of memory for their relationship would not make any difference in how he reacted to any pain they caused her.

As he stood before her, wrapping her wrists with the rope and smiling into her eyes, he watched and waited for any sign of the discomfort he was causing. She had no doubt that he was enjoying her struggling attempts to make it harder for him to tie her. She knew her instincts about him were right. This man would pounce on any perceived weakness like a vulture tearing into fresh meat, and either carrion already dead or a victim still in the throes of dying would do.

No.

Telling this man that Heath was her son, was not a way to gain any ground with him.

“Tight enough for you, Lady?” he grinned. When she didn’t answer, he added, “Now, get on over here and stay put, while I check out what else this stage is carrying for us today.” He pulled on the rope now attached to her wrists, yanking her viciously forward.

When she resisted by pulling back on the rope, he turned around and backhanded her across the cheekbone again. Only the tautness of the rope between them kept her from falling to her knees. Without a word, he pulled her forward again and tied the end of the rope to the highest point of the rear wheel of the stage, hauling her so close she could not sit down, though he pushed her head toward the ground. Instead, she fell awkwardly forward on her knees with her hands up and slightly over her head, closely tied to the wheel.

“Now, stay there and keep your mouth shut. If you get up or start running your mouth, as women are want to do, I’ll use my fist next time.”

Though she complied with his directions, she glared back into his cold eyes. Somehow, she knew that he would enjoy it more if he knew she were afraid.

He narrowed his eyes and stared at her for a few seconds, before turning around and climbing up on top of the coach.

It was awkward from the angle at which she leaned against the wheel, but she turned her head far enough to see, as the larger of the two men, the one called Jed, brought Heath toward the stage at gunpoint.

Heath was walking very slowly, almost staggering, and his head was down. She could see blood smeared along the side of his face, and she knew he was very close to going down.

The man behind him glanced up to see his redheaded boss throwing down items from on top of the stage, and he jabbed Heath hard in the back with the muzzle of the rifle, pushing him forward to hurry his pace. Heath stumbled and almost lost his balance, but recovered. Then, laughing, the man hit him in the side, this time much harder and with the butt of the rifle.

Heath fell to the ground. He lay there, on his battered side, and brought his knees up close to his chest----curling protectively around this newest assault to his body.

“Get up, Jehu!” the man taunted. He landed another blow, and Victoria heard the grunt of pain as the air left Heath’s lungs.

“Get up!” Jed demanded.

Heath rolled forward as he tried to get to his knees. He took a long time, however, and brought another blow down on his unprotected shoulders.

Unable to help him, it was all Victoria could do to keep from crying out to him, to let him know she was there, that he was not enduring this alone. She refused to close her eyes, to let him suffer it all alone and un-witnessed, but as the tears sprang to her eyes, she had to bite down on her lower lip to remain quiet.

Any outcry from her would just draw the man called Mason’s attention back toward Heath.

Suddenly, she narrowed her eyes and watched more closely.

What was he doing?

Though Heath was obviously having to struggle to his feet, moving slowly due to pain and the intermittent blows from the rifle butt, she realized that his actions were somehow deliberate. Almost unnoticed, he was working something out of his boot with one hand as he slowly straightened back up, first, to a kneeling position, then, to his feet.

He glanced up at Mason on top of the stage and over at the man with the rifle beside him. Then, he began walking toward the stage again, his steps leaden and his head down.

When he almost reached the back of the stage, Jed turned the gun sideways, holding both ends in his hands, and bashed Heath in the back with the length of it, shoving him to the ground. Then, he hollered up at Mason, “Hey, what you want I should do with him, now?”

The man above paused in his plunder and looked down at them. “I’m almost done here. Just watch him.”

Jed nodded.

At the man’s feet, Heath struggled to pull himself back up to his knees. Then, he sat on his heels, his left hand on his thigh supporting his battered upper body. He sucked in air and fought to keep the earth from spinning out of control beneath him, fought the dizziness that threatened to send him into the blackness on the edges of his vision.

He closed his eyes.

The knife, its short, four-inch blade making it perfect for concealing in his boot, making it perfectly balanced for throwing, was turned backward and hidden in his right hand-----away from the two men. Its blade was tucked down inside the cuff of his sleeve, and the end of its bone handle was held fast against his palm by the curved fingers of his fist pressed into the dirt.

He knew he would only get one opportunity, one chance to free her from these men. It had to be the right time, a chance carefully chosen, a chance taken with the greatest likelihood of success.

Patience came easily to him, a habit learned from a lifetime of having to work hard and wait long for every opportunity.

However, in this instance, he knew that time was his enemy.

He could feel his strength slipping away, like the drops of blood that oozed from the new gash along the side of his head. He could feel his alertness fading, like the brightness of the late afternoon sun above him, growing clouded behind the storm cloud moving across the ridgeline to their right.

He cracked his eyes open, and he found her watching him from less than ten feet away. She was tied closely to the stage wheel and obviously very uncomfortable, with her hands pulled just over her head. She had tears on her face and was sitting on her feet, her legs under her, and her eyes were searching his face.

He nodded slightly and smiled lopsidedly at her.

She nodded at him once, but she could not smile.

Suddenly, as if he had been hit again in the gut with Jed’s rifle, he realized that her tears were not for herself, her own discomfort, or for her own fear. From the look of worry, of compassion, of . . . of pride, on her face, he knew that her tears were for him.

At that, he raised his head still more and gazed back at her, listening to what she couldn’t say in words, listening to what her face told him, listening to her heart.

It was if his own mama reached out to him across that space between them, connecting them together, connecting his heart to hers. Though he still did not understand why she cared so much about him, his heart was full with the knowledge that she did-----and it was enough.

His confusion seemed to evaporate, the pain seemed to recede, and he felt the strength, the pride, and the love that she was sharing with him fill his heart.

He took in a deep breath, and staring into her eyes, he knew he would find the strength to do what he had to. He would find the clarity to act when the opportunity came.

Chapter 15

“Morning, James.”

“Good morning, Mr. Barkley,” the depot clerk answered, his eyes nervously taking in the powerful form of the darkly-clad rancher approaching his desk.

“I’d like a look at the stage schedule for everything you’ve got coming in for the next few days from the Bridgeport area.”

“Bridgeport?”

“Right,” Nick answered curtly. His natural impatience always got churned up a notch around this little man, with his darting eyes and anxious movements. He hated to even come in here and talk to the man, preferring to deal with James’ boss, Abel Matthews.

“Well, if you’ve gotta move anything real heavy, everything’s booked, so the only stage that you could send it out on to Bridgeport is the. . . .”

“No,” Nick corrected, “Not going to Bridgeport, coming from there.”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Barkley.” The flustered clerk went back to checking the schedules, his fingers now shaking as he tried to even remember what day it was.

Nick shook his head, not sure why he always had trouble communicating with the man, whose furrowed brow was now beaded in sweat as he rapidly flipped pages of the depot schedule log.

“Look, James,” Nick said, trying to remain calm. “When is Abel gonna be back?”

“Not ‘til after lunch, Mr. Barkley,” the man looked up into the stern face and the hazel eyes staring down at him.

“Fine. Don’t worry about it, then. I’ll come back later.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barkley. It’ll just take me another minute to figure it all out for you.”

“No hurry, James. No hurry.”

Shaking his head, with his spurs jingling in time with his agitation, Nick strode from the wooden structure situated near the livery. He mounted his patiently waiting horse and jogged down the street to Jarrod’s office. Once there, he tied Coco and stalked inside.

“Mrs. Landry,” he said, touching the brim of his hat in greeting to the pretty, but matronly, secretary. Then, he pointed towards Jarrod’s closed door in silent question, even as he walked determinedly forward to open it.

With his hand already turning the brass door knob, he heard her say sweetly, “Go right in, Mr. Barkley.” He paused for a split second, glanced back at her smiling face, and flashed her his best smile. Then, he proceeded to open the door and enter the well-appointed office.

“Brother Nick!” Jarrod said, without looking around, the back of his chair to the door and his feet propped up on the windowsill behind his desk. He closed his book with a sigh, and then slowly dropped his feet and swiveled his high-backed, burgundy leather chair around to face his brother.

Nick crossed the gleaming wooden floor, his heavy footsteps and loud spurs only slightly muffled as he walked over the oval Oriental rug in front of the desk, and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter.

“Help yourself, there, Nick,” Jarrod said with continued amusement. “What brings you into town this time of day?”

“Jarrod,” Nick ignored the question, asking one of his own. “Why do you suppose Abel keeps that James fella on down at the depot? The man has no skills. He does nothing but stammer every time I go in there, and he is worse than worthless at answering the simplest of questions!”

Jarrod nodded sagely, “Ahhh! Now, I know why you’re here. ‘Still worrying about that telegram, huh? You just can’t let it go, can you. Heath is right about you, you know. You’re worse than a mother hen worrying over her chicks----and in this case, you’ve got two to worry over----both of Mother and Heath. If I were James, after the last time you got impatient with him and lifted him from behind his desk with one hand, I’d run when I saw you coming. Especially when you’ve got that worried, mother hen, mama bear look about you!”

“Now, Jarrod, the man insulted me. But, I’m over it. That was two months ago.” Nick shook his head.

“Nick. . . .”

“Don’t Nick me, Jarrod. He gave me wrong information, and it cost me three trips to town waiting on supplies that never came. Then, he said I must have read the schedule wrong! The schedule he gave me!”

Jarrod raised one eyebrow as Nick’s voice rose in the retelling of it.

“I didn’t read it wrong! That little jack-. . . . ah, weasel,” he corrected as he glanced over his shoulder, realizing that Mrs. Landry could probably hear him, even through the closed door, “Made it sound like, just ‘cause I work with cattle for a living, I couldn’t read or something.”

Jarrod chuckled and shook his head. Then, he held up both hands and stood up from his chair. “Alright, Nick. You’re right. And, I don’t know why Abel keeps him around except he probably feels sorry for him since James’ wife died.”

Nick looked down at his drink, feeling an immediate, slight pang of regret at his outspoken criticism of the man who had lost his wife within the last year.

Jarrod walked over and clamped Nick on the shoulder. “What say we go to the Cattlemen’s and grab an early lunch? That’s the real reason you’re here, right? To avoid a lunch cooked by our little sister back at the house?”

Nick looked up into Jarrod’s twinkling blue eyes, and he nodded, a grin quickly replacing his brief scowl of a moment before.

As they walked toward the door, Jarrod picked up a pillow from the leather couch and tossed it toward Nick. He said, “I wonder if Brother Heath is wishing for one of these about now?”

Nick swatted back at his brother’s chest with the tweed pillow and answered, “I don’t know, Jarrod, but I would bet money that he’s doing more sleeping than talking. Heath Barkley cooped up on a stage for days? I bet he’s been a less than satisfactory traveling companion for Mother.”

Then, he scratched the back of his head, before adding, “I still can’t figure out why she wanted to go all that way to see someone she hardly even remembers.”

Jarrod stopped and looked over at Nick pointedly, before saying, “You know, Nick, I don’t think her desire to make this trip had as much to do with renewing an acquaintance she remembered from when Father was alive, as it did with renewing an acquaintance with someone she came to know after he died.”

“Who?” Nick asked, puzzled.

Then, as he closed Jarrod’s office door behind them, he began slowly nodding his head. Now that he thought about it, his brother’s comments made perfect sense.

He added, “You mean with Heath.”

“Yes. With Heath,” Jarrod responded as they exited the building and headed down the street together.

* * * * * * * *

She watched as Mason dumped out the mail bags, as well as the freight he hauled out of the boot.

However, uninterested in their actions, except in relation to how attentive they were to the two of them, Heath kept his narrowed eyes on Jed-----and he struggled to remain alert.

“Jed, you keep your gun on him. He don’t look like he’s got any fight left in him, but he might fool us.”

“Do you want I should tie him up, Mason?”

“Nah. I’ll be finished here directly. Just keep him there a little longer,” the man smirked.

He seemed to be looking for something in particular as he pulled out crates and bags, emptying them all over the ground and kicking them to scatter the contents. Suddenly, he cursed excitedly and held up a small canvas bag he had dumped out of a leather case.

Opening it, he poured out a couple of large, greenish, reddish-colored crystalline rocks into his hand. “Here they are, Jed! Just like Reese said they would be. Now, all we’ve gotta do is get up to the Upper Blue, and get these little gems into his hands.”

Turning quickly, he strode over to one of the waiting horses and tied the canvas bag onto his saddle. Then, he walked back to the stage. “Keep the gun on him, Jed.”

He worked at untying Victoria and pulled her to her feet. As the blood rushed back into her lower legs, she stumbled and cried out.

When Mason cursed at her, Heath reacted by working his way to his feet. Just as Mason pulled his hand back to strike her, Heath said in a cold, commanding voice, “No, Mason.”

The man’s hand froze, as he turned to stare at his challenger.

“It doesn’t take much of a man to hit a woman,” Heath added, as he willed himself to face the man and not give in to the dizziness that threatened him as he stood.

A slow smile spread across the sharp features of the man’s face, as he pushed Victoria toward Jed. The larger man reached out and wrapped one muscular arm around her and held her fast. In the other hand, Jed continued to hold the rifle.

Still smiling, Mason said, “Watch them. I’ll get one of the horses.”

When he returned with the chestnut, he gave one rein to Jed and took the rifle from him. “Go on. Get her in the saddle.” He trained the rifle on Heath, while Jed hoisted the tiny woman into the saddle, ignoring the boot she kicked toward his nose and her attempts to hit him in the head with her tied wrists.

Mason just laughed at his companion’s difficulties. Then, he added, “Tie her hands to the horn, Jed. That’ll keep her.”

Laughing loudly as Victoria’s boot caught Jed in the ear, Mason tossed the rifle to his bruised companion and turned back to Heath.

As the man advanced on him, Heath watched his eyes. He saw the man glance down for a second, pulling his pistol from his holster. In that instant, Heath stepped forward and spun to his left, catching Mason hard on the neck with his left elbow. The man went down on all fours, gagging from the sudden impact with his throat.

Then, Heath threw his knife hard, plunging it up to the hilt in Jed’s right shoulder. The large man, his rage equaled only by his high squeal of pain, reached for the knife and tried to pull it out.

But, when he couldn’t budge it, he gave up and raised the rifle to shoot.

Without his shoulder to brace the stock against, however, Jed’s aim, even at very close range, sent the shot wide as Heath lunged toward the chestnut.

Tossing the trailing rein over the horse’s neck, Heath shoved one foot in the long stirrup that hung down below Victoria’s boot and swung up behind her. He turned the horse up the road, away from the stage, booted the chestnut into a full gallop, and he wrapped his arms protectively around the tiny woman tied to the saddle in front of him.

As the horse carried them out of the fray, Heath said to her, “The station. Go ta Ogden.”

She turned her head back toward him, heard his ragged breathing in her ear. Why was he telling her this, making it sound like he wouldn’t be with her?

“Heath, are you sure? That old man? He’s so. . . .”

“Trust me,” was all he could manage to say in her ear, as he leaned forward from behind her, panting for breath, struggling to keep the blackness away. He was determined to shield her from anything that followed them.

Just as he thought they were going to make the first bend, the curve in the road that would separate their escape from the men behind them, he felt a burning, white hot poker lance into him. At almost the same instant, the sound of the shot carried to his ears, and he felt his arm lose its hold on her, the force of the bullet’s path ripping him from the horse and plunging him toward the rock-strewn edge of the road.

“Heath!”

He heard her voice as the galloping horse carried her away.

As he hit the ground, he raised his head, motioning with his other hand, outstretched above his head, and shouted, “Go! Go on!” His voice, his hand, and his thoughts combined, willed her to keep going, willed her to be enough of a rider to control the horse with her legs since her hands were tied, willed her toward a place of refuge, . . . willed her to safety.

Chapter 16

He lay in the dirt trying to keep his eyes open, trying to force them to stay cracked enough to see death approaching.

The seconds ticking off in his head, keeping time with the pulsing of blood from his shoulder, he heard them coming. Pushing up with his right hand, he struggled to haul himself up to his knees, then to his feet, unwilling to meet death lying down in the dirt.

As their horses slid to a stop not eight feet from where he stood, his only thoughts were of the woman he hoped was still charging up the steep road astride the red horse.

He began a silent litany inside his bowed head, thinking over and over, “More time. She needs more time.”

Still reciting his litany, he saw the dark boots dismount and stand just beyond him, dusty brown leather against dusty brown road.

“More time. She needs more time.”

His thoughts remained focused as he raised his head to see the redheaded man glaring into his eyes. Mason hauled him forward, Heath’s tan boots scraping across the rock-strewn road, stumbling, trying to find a foothold.

“More time. She needs more time.”

He raised his right hand to shove at the tight fist gripping the front of his shirt, trying to offer more resistance than he had left, trying to keep his vision from sliding away, into the blackness.

“More time. She needs. More time,” he told himself.

Though his left hand hung uselessly at his side, his right thumb found the painful pressure point between Mason’s upper lip and the base of his nose, and he pushed hard, trying to make the man move his head, trying to make him yield, even a little.

“More time. Give her. More time.”

Ignoring the curses coming from the redhead, he shoved backwards as hard as he could as the man’s fist came up and caught Heath under the jaw. With his feet unsteady beneath him, the only thing that kept him standing was Mason’s continued grip on his shirt.

“More time. More time.”

As another blow found him, this time catching his right shoulder, he knew he was fading.

“More time. . . .”

He closed his eyes, pushing away the blackness, as he felt the shift in the man’s weight before him, followed by a fist to his gut.

“More t. . . .”

He could no longer finish the thought as he crashed to his knees, released suddenly from the man’s grip.

“More. . . .”

“I told you I was gonna finish you, Boy,” Mason sneered at the battered man teetering on his knees before him, at the bloody face with the eyes barely cracked open.

“C’mon, Mason, kill him and let’s get after her,” Jed’s, whiny, pain-filled voice said from somewhere beyond him.

Heath lifted one knee and tried to push off of the ground with the boot he brought forward, but he could go no further, his useless left arm hanging at his side and the pounding in his head blocking out all thought, except the words he kept repeating to himself.

“More time, more. . . .”

He had to keep the man here a little longer. He tried again to stand, this time, gaining his feet, but unable to move toward the grinning, red-haired man.

“C’mon, Boy. I’m right here.”

The man shook his head when Heath didn’t move forward, knowing the younger man was no threat.

“Nothing but a yellow snake, Mason----hittin’ that woman,” Heath slurred, the words difficult to formulate, even harder to spit out.

Having turned away to get Jed’s rifle, Mason now rounded on him, cursing, and pummeling him with his fists in his instant rage.

As the blows fell, Heath knew he had to keep fighting, had to keep this man in this place as long as possible, . . . though he could no longer remember why.

Suddenly, he went down again as the man’s fist glanced off his left shoulder. The pain from the bullet’s path surged through his arm and slammed into his brain, as he curled up around his arm to shield it from any more blows.

He heard Mason shriek in laughter at the pain he knew he had caused.

Then, through barely opened eyes, he saw the redheaded man turn away again, . . . and he knew it was over.

He had done all he could do.

They would shoot him and chase after her-----------after her?

An image of a silver-haired woman tied to a chestnut horse came back to him as he lay in the dirt.

Would she be able to stay ahead of them?

Could she make it back to the station before they caught her?

He remembered the love that he had seen burning in her eyes, the love, the pride, and the compassion that he didn’t understand, but that had all come together to help him find a renewed strength to fight them.

How could he help her now?

He was only minimally aware of the drops of rain hitting him in the face, keeping him awake and out of the blackness a little longer.

From far away, from far above him, he saw a man standing over him.

He turned his head and watched as the man’s face came closer, the man’s laugh ringing out as he knelt down beside him in the dirt. He saw the cruel smile and heard the words as if from a great distance.

“I tole you I was gonna make you pay for killing my men, didn’t I, Charlie?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Heath watched as the man lifted up a dirty knife.

Though the darkness was pressing in on him from the edges of his vision, he recognized it.

It was his own knife, the one with the four-inch blade, the one he had pulled from his boot not long ago, the one with the bone handle that he had thrown into the other man, . . . . . the one with the other man’s blood still on it.

Mason turned the knife back and forth in his hand, each drop of rain on its surface diluting the dark shade of red across its smeared blade.

He grabbed Heath by his injured shoulder and shoved him down, to lie on his back in the rain.

Then, with another smile, the cold, black eyes bored into Heath’s as Mason raised the knife and laughed again.

The sound of that heartless laugh merged, then, with the scream Heath could not stop, as the hot, slicing blade cut deep into him, its double edge burrowing through his shoulder and widening the path already slashed clean through by the bullet that had preceded it long minutes before.

Panting for air, Heath fought with the man, then, as Mason continued to laugh, as he continued to drive the knife deeper into his shoulder.

“Fight, Boy. Go on and fight it.” Mason laughed again.

Though he wanted to be still, to give this man no more pleasure in seeing him struggle, somehow, he couldn’t. His instinct was to survive, to fight his way in or out, if necessary. And, from somewhere behind it all, the thought surfaced that the longer he fought, the longer he kept the man’s interest----the longer she had to get away.

When Mason started hitting the hilt of the knife with his other hand to push it in deeper, Heath completely lost his head. He bucked and kicked, fighting like a wild animal with its leg caught in a metal trap.

Slowly, however, he wore down.

Finally, he was no longer able to move.

He cursed at the man, and at himself, his body growing weaker by the second. Then, he lay still, gasping for breath, watching the dead eyes above him, the cold emanating out of them like a blizzard blasting through a dark canyon in the dead of night.

“Fight, Boy. Go on. Fight it. Help me push it in deeper!”

When Heath didn’t respond, didn’t move, Mason let go of the firmly embedded knife and held his bloody hand up for Heath to see. Then, he very deliberately tapped his hand against Heath’s face once, and rubbed the same bloody hand across Heath’s shirt.

He smiled at his victim’s struggle for air, the rasping, panting sounds drawing him like a fly to a feast. For a long moment, he stayed there, hovering over him, watching Heath’s eyes, trying to feed on the pain he saw there.

Slowly, Heath closed his eyes and turned his face away, his own blood from the man’s handprint standing out against his bruised face, the rain already beginning to smear it.

Angered, Mason stood up and began kicking him in the side, trying to make him cry out. “C’mon, Boy. Fight. Let me hear you beg for it to stop.”

Even if he had had breath to do so, even if he had thought it would make the man stop, as the hard leather of the boot swung toward him again, he knew he would not do as the man demanded.

“Low-down, . . . yellow-. . . bellied . . . snake,” Heath slurred.

The rage stoked again, Mason continued to pelt him. Each thud of the boot into his side jerked him into a tighter and tighter ball, as he curled back over on his side, his body trying to protect itself.

Finally, the man grew tired of his silence, and he stopped, his own breath heaving in his chest.

Looking around at the darkening sky, the clouds continuing to roll in with the stiff evening breeze, Mason’s dark eyes began to clear of the blood lust that had kept him in its grip ever since he had seen the battered blond struggling to his feet on the side of the road.

Mason glanced back at Jed, who was impatiently waiting for him to return to their chase, his arm still oozing blood beneath the hastily applied bandana.

Then, he looked down once more at the young man curled on his side in the dirt, the blood coating the blue shirt sleeve, the rain soaking the rest, the hilt of the knife still sticking up out of the mangled shoulder.

He leaned down and pulled Heath’s head back by the hair, staring into the blue eyes that opened just a crack and glared back at him defiantly.

“. . . ye. . . low . . . snake. . . ,” Heath gasped.

Mason rammed his head into the dirt, his anger returning.

Then, he took a deep breath and snarled, “It’s time for you to die, now, Boy. But, I’m not gonna shoot you again. I’m just gonna leave you here for the cold and the rain to find you, to wash all the blood outta you. You’re gonna die here, alone in the dark. You remember me in the long night ahead----and you remember that silver-haired lady that rode off and left you here to die. She forgot you, just like I tole you she would.”

Then, he straightened back up and kicked Heath one more time.

But, this time, the hard leather of his boot reopened the stitched up gash in the back of Heath’s head.

That single blow did what all of the others had not----it took all the fight out of him, took away all the awareness of his surroundings, and it plunged him back into darkness, his memories now buried even deeper within him by an explosion of pain inside that only he could hear, only he could feel.

Leaving Heath lying there, Mason turned around and stalked to his horse. He and Jed turned their horses up the sloping road toward the east.

Chapter 17

“Heath!”

She felt the force of the bullet tear into and through him, its heat ripping a scalding path across the sleeve of her blouse and the skin of her arm, as it first crashed him forward into her, and then overpowered him, slamming him to the ground from his place behind her saddle.

She felt his loss as he fell, his name torn from her lips, “Heath!”

At first, with her hands tied to the saddle horn, she could do little but hold on as the horse continued plunging up the sloping road, away from the bullets, away from the stage, away from her fallen son.

She turned her head, saw him lying in the dirt, his head up and his eyes watching her. She heard his voice crying out to her, saw the movement of one arm, urging her to flee, urging her away from the pursuing men.

“Go! Go on!”

Slowly, she recovered from the horror of having him ripped from behind her. Needing to wipe her eyes, but unable to move her hands, she lowered her head slightly and blinked fiercely.

Somehow, she had to turn the horse and go back to him.

She had to help him!

The sting of the torn skin and the sting of the salt tears were both making it difficult to think. She clung to the saddle horn for a moment longer, neither pushing the horse on, nor trying to use her weight to slow it----Heath’s words urging her to go, waging war inside her head with the words in her heart that were crying out to her to go back.

What had he said to her?

What had he said just before the bullet tore through him?

“Ogden!” she murmured aloud. “If I can get to Ogden, we can both go back to help him.”

Then, her fear for Heath slammed into her again, and she knew that, even if she could get to the old man before the two outlaws caught up to her, she and Ogden could be too late to help Heath.

But, if she turned back now, how could she help him?

How could she, with her hands tied together, tied to the saddle, do anything except return right back into the same situation, the situation Heath had been willing to sacrifice everything to get her out of?

She saw Mason’s cold, dark eyes again in her mind, and she knew the terms of the choice.

If she went back, she would still be useless to help him. And worse, Mason would continue to use her against her son.

And Heath? He would keep fighting to protect her, and in the end, she knew they would both die.

If she did as he had told her, if she went to Ogden, then the two of them would at least have a chance to help him.

She heard Heath’s voice in her head again, his shouted words pleading with her to make it to safety, “Go! Go on!” Then, she remembered his quiet words from seconds before that, telling her what she had to do, in case, . . . in case he blacked out, or. . . or in case he didn’t make it.

“The station. Go ta Ogden.”

She had doubted him, questioned him, concerned that they would be leading the men right to the door of a defenseless old man.

“Heath, are you sure?”

But, despite his struggle to breathe----his struggle, she was sure, to hang onto her in the condition he was in----his reply had been quiet, but instantaneous.

“Trust me.”

Hadn’t that been what the struggles and the dilemmas of the last few months had revolved around? Hadn’t that been what this trip had been about rebuilding?

Even knowing that he might be killed in their escape attempt, he had used his own body as a shield for her. He had known what might happen. He had told her to go to Ogden, told her where to go in case a bullet caught up with him during their escape.

Though he did not even remember that he had called her Mother for the last few months, he had offered his life to protect hers.

When she had questioned his directions, he had responded with the very word that she had hoped he would completely give back to her someday.

He had quickly responded, “Trust me.”

. . . . . And, she did.

Suddenly, her mind made up, she shouted, “Hi! Hi!” and used every muscle in her legs and body to drive the still galloping horse forward even faster, up the slightly inclined road, toward the station at Ebbet's Pass, toward the only person who could help them both.

* * * * * * * *

Jarrod picked up his green cloth napkin, and wiped at his mouth. Then, he sat back from the table and watched his brother.

For the second meal in a row, Nick had eaten less than normal, picking at the meat and vegetables as if he were far away, as if he were somewhere else.

Smiling, Jarrod was suddenly reminded of their youngest brother. Without realizing it, Nick was acting like they had all seen Heath do, countless times, when he was deep in thought or particularly bothered about something.

“Nick,” Audra admonished, her exasperation at his lack of attention beginning to show, “If you don’t like the duck, just say so. Silas made it, so you don’t have to worry that I’m going to poison you or anything.”

Her hazel-eyed brother looked up, his eyes focusing on her finally, from a long way away.

“Huh?”

“Oh-h-h, you!” she balled up her napkin and tossed it across the table at him, hitting him unceremoniously in the chest-----something she would never have done if Victoria had been seated beside her.

“What? What’d I do?”

“Nick, what was that you were saying earlier about Heath not being a good companion to Mother because he wouldn’t hold up his end of the conversation?” Jarrod teased.

“Oh. Uh, sorry Audra,” he started. “I guess I was just thinking about. . . .”

Jarrod cut in, “Nick, I’m quite sure a sore backside is not affecting Heath’s appetite right about now.”

At the mournful look in Nick’s eyes at Jarrod’s mention, twice now, of his absent partner, Audra’s exasperation with him turned quickly to compassion. She reached across the table and touched Nick’s hand, the one that still held his poised fork, as she lowered her head and tried to get him to smile at her.

“No, I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t think,” She smiled at him when she finally caught his eye. “I didn’t realize you were so quiet because you missed Heath.”

“Well, now, I don’t know if I’d go that far. . . ,” Nick trailed off, as he looked at, first Audra, then Jarrod, finally realizing they were both teasing him.

His face broke into a wide grin, he shrugged his shoulders slightly, and he chuckled at himself.

“Yeah, well, don’t tell him when he gets home, but, I guess I do miss him.”

His brother and sister looked at each other, surprised to hear him admit his feelings so openly to them.

He continued, but the smile was gone now, “I guess I was just enjoying having him back with us when he had to leave again to get those horses. You know, he was really back this time, with his heart, . . . . well, you know what I mean.” He paused, before saying with uncharacteristic quiet, “He’s been through so much. I just wish he were here, where I . . . .”

Breaking off, he stood up abruptly, tossed his napkin, and Audra’s, into his chair, and said gruffly, “Sorry, Little Sis, I guess I’m just not hungry tonight.”

Again, they looked at each other as Nick stalked quickly from the room. They heard his spurs as he headed for the kitchen’s side door, its slam making them both jump as he left the house.

Jarrod looked at Audra and said, “Well, I guess now isn’t the best time to tell him that I talked to James Robeson at the depot this afternoon. The only stage from Bridgeport due in tomorrow is the one that left two days ago. It’ll arrive in the morning, but they couldn’t have made that one. The next one is coming by a more remote route, and it isn’t due until the next afternoon.”

Chapter 18

The distances between stations was usually only fourteen to sixteen miles, but she had never come this particular way and didn’t know if that was true for this mountainous area or not. On their trip east, they had used the Sonora route, with the plan to return by way of Silver Lake further to the north after visiting near Bridgeport.

This particular route through Ebbet's Pass was run less frequently, and she knew better than to hope that she would come upon anyone else along this fairly steep, frighteningly twisting, rock-bordered road tonight.

So far, she had managed to keep the horse moving, but she could feel him beginning to tire beneath her now. He was starting to drift some, not always keeping to the shortest circuit of the road’s many curves, despite her leg pressure. Though riding had always come easy to her, this was definitely one of those times when she wished for longer legs.

Pushing the horse harder, she struggled again to reach the one rein that was almost within grasp of her fingers. It lay across the horse’s neck, just in front of the saddle, where it had lodged when Heath had been pulled from behind her by the force of the bullet.

If she could just reach it, perhaps she could have firmer control over the chestnut. Again, she leaned forward, trying to give her hands more slack on the ropes binding her to the saddle horn. Her questing fingers could just graze the edge of the rein, but it wasn’t enough to help her grasp it and hold on.

Her frustration mounting, she concentrated on digging her heels into the horse’s sides and keeping him moving forward at a steady lope.

When she reached the top of the slope, however, she realized the horse had to have a breather. She shifted her weight down in the saddle and said, “Whoa.”

The horse obeyed instantly, even without the pressure of the reins against the bit, his long, hard climb rewarded with a chance to blow.

Victoria used the few moments of stillness to work her hands back and forth, trying to gain additional slack in the ropes, while her eyes surveyed the road below, looking for signs of her pursuers.

While part of her was very relieved at not seeing them below her, another part---her mother’s heart----wept at the thought of what could be happening to her son at their hands.

She allowed herself the luxury of a few more seconds of fear and worry, closing her eyes and squeezing back the tears at the picture etched into her brain, the image of him lying on the road on his chest, looking up at her with worry in his eyes, waving one arm at her, and yelling, “Go! Go on!” to send her toward safety.

Both her anger and her anguish fueled her determination to free her hands, and she felt the rope give another fraction as she desperately tried to work her hands against each other.

Stretching her fingers out one more time before she kicked the horse forward, she was rewarded to feel the rein with more than just the tips of her fingers. She held it securely between two of her fingers and the leather of the saddle.

As she clucked to the chestnut and urged him into motion with her legs, she kept the rein from slipping out of her grasp by pushing it against the saddle until she could work it higher, closer to her hand. After another few seconds, she had it within range of her thumb------then, with a feeling of triumph growing inside her, she caught hold of it fully and brought it securely into her hand.

Now, as the horse trotted forward, she could at least use the one rein to give him additional direction. Feeling much more in control, she urged him back to a long lope on the more level ground.

Able to think ahead now, she began to worry again about taking this trouble to Ogden Haverty’s door.

He was such an old man, with his limping gait and wild, white mane. But, then, she hadn’t noticed any weakness in his blue eyes, nor in his grip, when he had reached out to help her with Heath. In fact, she had been surprised at his strength.

And Heath trusted him-----trusted him with her safety.

She knew that Heath Barkley was an excellent judge of character, and more importantly, he had asked her to trust his judgment in the old man.

She remembered the story the old stager had told, about how Heath had saved his life. She had seen the tears Ogden had in his eyes when he talked about her son. And, it dawned on her that, although Heath had known the man for a shorter time than Ellis had, he was the one who knew the old man’s name, not Ellis.

She blinked hard at the sudden thought.

What had happened to Ellis? Had he been killed? Was he back there on the side of the road, alive somewhere, having been knocked from the stage by a bullet? If she had gone back, could Ellis have helped her? Or was he the one who needed the most help?

Struggling with the questions, she thought through Heath’s actions and remembered back over the time they had waited by the rock. If Ellis had still been alive, Heath would have said something, would have worried over his inability to help the driver. But, he had not mentioned him.

Nodding her head slightly as she rode, she confirmed what, sadly, she already knew deep down----Ellis must have been killed in the shooting.

She looked up at the tops of the trees silhouetted now against the fading light, the towering red firs high above the smaller lodgepole pines. The serenity of this place, even in the wet, dreariness of the misty rain, gave her some comfort from the torment inside of her.

How much further until she reached the station at Ebbet's Pass?

How long until she could she get some help and head back to find Heath?

She thought back to their early morning departure, realizing it must have been after ten this morning when they had been attacked. That meant that they had probably traveled for at least an hour, maybe closer to two, before the riders started shooting. She must have over another hour to go until she could even begin to think about seeing the log-hewn station in the gap at the top of the ridge. Her pace going up, could not begin to match that of the four-horse hitch coming down.

How long would it take them to catch her? Would their horses be as winded as hers was when he had reached that last stopping point? Did she dare stop again to rest the chestnut? Or should she keep pushing him on?

As she tried to think, tried to plan ahead, though part of her mind was drifting back behind her, she was hit again by her fears. Just the thought of the beating Heath had endured at the hands of those two men by the rocks, made her heart cry out to keep going until she reached the pass.

Overcome with worry, she whispered, “Heath. Heath, Honey,” and choked back another sob.

She looked up at the darkening sky above her, the drizzly grey of the evening and the thickening clouds mirroring the bleakness in her grey eyes, as she thought about all she had left behind, below her on the road toward home.

* * * * * * * *

Nick was standing by the corral, the darkening sky making it more and more difficult to see the dark bay coat of the horse moving restlessly across the other side of the enclosure.

He stood with one boot propped up on the lowest rail of the white fence, his arms lying along the top rail, bent at the elbows, one hand rubbing back and forth across his forehead beneath his hat. Deep in thought, he watched his brother’s horse, while he kicked at the board with the toe of his boot, making his spurs sing to no one in particular.

Neither he nor the horse was listening to them.

The bay tossed his head back and forth, as he trotted along the length of the fence, his nose high and his ears tipped forward. Sporadically, the horse trumpeted his displeasure and unease into the darkness, as if he were calling to someone, calling into the growing night.

Watching him, Nick could commiserate. He, too, felt out of sorts and eager to escape, chaffing under the darkness that prevented him from riding out across the valley with the wind. His frustration was mounting. His fear and unease were growing.

But, he didn’t know why.

Suddenly, he realized the horse was standing still, his head up, ears and eyes pointing toward the road to the ranch behind Nick.

Nick turned around, watching and listening. At first, he was unable to find the reason for the horse’s sudden attention. Then, he heard the sound of leather, of a jingling harness, of a horse approaching.

Pushing off from the fence, he took long strides toward the house, intent on intercepting the buggy coming in the front gate.

Moments later, he was shocked to see the unmistakable silhouette of James Robeson alighting from the buggy and approaching the front door.

“James!” Nick called.

The skittish man jumped at the voice coming toward him, and he peered into the shadowy darkness of early evening.

He all but stuttered as he replied, his hat twisting desperately in his hands, “Mr. Barkley, I didn’t see you there.”

His hand on the brass door handle, Nick pushed the door open and invited the man inside. Then, he winced when the nervous man jumped at the bellow he used to summon his older brother, “JARROD!”

Feeling a hint of guilt, Nick pointed James toward a seat and said, “Can I get you a drink, James?”

“No, Mr. Barkley, I don’t want anything. I . . . I just came to give you some information.”

Nick turned around from the drinks table, and his eyes rested on the fidgeting man, barely perched on the edge of his mother’s grey upholstered chair. They both looked up at Jarrod’s rapid footsteps approaching from the foyer.

James fairly jumped out of his seat and towards Jarrod, as if hoping the calm lawyer would save him from his bellowing brother.

“Mr. Barkley,” he began, talking first to Jarrod, then reluctantly including Nick. “I know you both wanted to know about the stage schedules inbound from Bridgeport. I don’t know if it’s important or not, but I thought it might help. One of our coaches, the one due into Tamarack this afternoon, didn’t make it there.”

Jarrod and Nick looked at each other across the room. Then, without a word, both turned back to Robeson.

“How do you know, James?” Jarrod asked.

The little man swallowed and nodded quickly, as he answered, “They’ve got a telegraph there, and the wire came a little while ago.” He then gazed down at his feet, and he said, “I, . . . I didn’t know if it mattered to you or not, but, . . . but, I thought it might help in some way.”

Nick walked toward the man and held out his hand. “Thank you, James. Our mother and brother could be on that stage. We’re not sure. If you hear anything else, please get word to us. As it is, we’re beholding to you.”

The man barely looked up as he quickly shook Nick’s hand and let go, almost as if he were afraid Nick would grind his hand into powder if he left it too long.

“No, Mr. Barkley,” the man responded, his eyes back on the floor and both hands back on his hat brim, “I owed you for insulting you a while back, and, . . . and, I’m just glad the information might be helpful. I, . . . I’ll be going now, but I’ll keep an eye out for more news.” Then, he raised his eyes to glance into Nick’s, “I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

Jarrod walked over and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder in appreciation. Then, he shook the man’s hand, and followed him toward the door.

“Good night, James, and thank you again,” he said.

James nodded and waved slightly as he climbed into his buggy.

Nick returned to the drinks tray and poured himself a straight whiskey. When Jarrod returned from outside, Nick was swirling the untouched contents around in the glass, while he stared outside through the open window behind Audra’s piano.

Jarrod broke the silence first, “Well, what do you know about that, Nick? It sure was nice of James to ride all the way out here to apologize to you and let us know about the stage, don’t you think?”

Nick nodded, still swirling his whiskey.

Then, after another moment’s silence, he said, his eyes still on the distant hills, barely visible now in the dark grey of the late evening, “I’m headed up that way in the morning, Jarrod. ‘You coming?”

Looking at him thoughtfully, it was Jarrod’s turn to nod. His thoughts on the absent members of his family and all they meant to him, not to mention all that they had been through recently, he said, “I’ll be right behind you, Brother Nick. Right behind you.”

Chapter 19

Ogden Haverty looked up from his chores inside the barn.

Then, he nodded his head and spoke to the horse he had been tending, “Well, Old Girl, it looks like the rain’s finally made it here. ‘Knew it would get here sometime ‘the night.”

Patting the strong, off-wheeler on her muscular neck, he whistled to himself as he exited her stall and limped toward her partner in the next one.

His knee had been giving him a fit all day, and he had taken comfort in the clouds that had begun rolling in a few hours ago, knowing then that the swelling pain was a result of a temporary change in the weather, not of any aggravation of the old injury.

The slow rhythm of water falling on the tin roof of the barn through the surrounding trees made a nice background for the accompanying sound of his team as they ground their supper between their teeth.

He leaned in the doorway, pausing to watch the rain come down full force, and decided, though he really doubted it would ease up quickly, to stay inside the barn to wait it out for a little while.

* * * * * * * *

The rain was coming harder now, making it more difficult to keep the horse going, especially on the frequent slopes. Sometimes walking, sometimes trotting forward, their best pace was nowhere near the solid gallop of over an hour ago.

Unable to wipe the rain from her face and eyes, she could only shake her head to dislodge the drips cascading down from her soaked hair. Peering through the darkening gloom and rain that sometimes came down on her in sheets, she struggled to keep the road visible, intent on making it to the station ahead of the men she was sure were behind her somewhere.

Her spirits were beyond damp.

Suddenly, the horse beneath her shied to the right. With her wrists and arms screaming in agony, she immediately found herself hanging half-on, half-off the left side of the still trotting horse. The only things holding her on the saddle were her right leg, now slung across the horse’s back, and her wrists, still tied to the saddle horn.

She only caught a glimpse of the large coyote that had crossed the road in front of them, before it disappeared between the rocks on the other side.

Questing beneath her desperately, she struggled to place her left foot in the long stirrup. Finding it, finally, she used it to get herself in a better position from which she could wrap her hands around the saddle horn and pull herself back up into the saddle.

“Good Boy,” she soothed to the horse, grateful that he had not bolted and that the saddle had not slipped sideways with the sudden shift of her weight to the left. She got her bearings and urged the horse on.

“Easy there, Son,” she said, soothing the soaked animal beneath her.

As they continued to trudge upward through the rain, her words to the horse brought her mind full-circle, back to the son she had left behind, alone to face the two men who were probably bent on killing him for shooting the others.

Her tears blending with the rain pelting her face, she allowed the sobs to shake her.

She thought of him again as she had seen him last, lying there in the swirling dirt looking up at her, sending her on with his voice, waving her on with his hand.

She wondered if he was still lying there.

She shivered suddenly, shaken by the thought that he could be dead now, killed by more bullets from the same men.

She could see him in her mind, alone, lying there in the dark, his face in the dirt, the rain soaking his still body.

For long moments, she could only hold on fiercely to the saddle horn and the single rein, her hope of finding Heath alive when she returned with Ogden’s help, growing soggier by the second.

* * * * * * * *

“There she is!”

Jed’s shout carried through the mounting storm to reach Mason’s ears. He peered through the pouring rain, waiting for the next flash of lightning to try to catch sight of the woman on the horse above them on the slightly rising road.

The wet rocks on either side of the road glistened in the next white light of a flash, the roll of the thunder reaching them several seconds later. He searched the road and spotted her, no more than 150 yards ahead.

Her horse was struggling in the poor footing of the slick, dirt road, the rain and the slope slowly taking its toll on the tired animal.

Though he was unfamiliar with the area, Mason could tell by the trees that were thinning more, the higher they climbed, that they were approaching the end of the ascent. Unwilling to let her cross over the ridge, Mason pulled his pistol from his holster and prepared to fire before she began the descent he knew would follow.

While he would prefer to take her alive, he knew they could not afford to let her slip through their fingers, could not allow her to take her knowledge of what they had done to the two stagers and share it with anyone else.

With another flash from the sky, he realized she was not far from a curve that would leave them blind to her escape.

He leveled his gun and fired twice, hoping to scare her into falling off her horse or frightening her into stopping, though he knew he had little hope of hitting her from this distance in the dark.

In the next flash of light, he decided she must have either fallen, jumped, or been shot off, because he could no longer see her, could no longer see the white of the lightning glinting off her silver hair. All he could see was the horse, still running, full out now, toward the curve, toward the ridge.

He must have hit her.

Hollering in triumph to Jed, he yelled, “Look for her on your side of the road. I think I got her.”

Chapter 20

Ogden’s head came up at the twin sounds, the two reports closely following the last crashing bolt of lightning.

He had returned to his work, limping back and forth across the barn, moving bales of hay away from the door in case the rain started blowing in more than usual.

At the unexpected sounds, he stopped in his tracks. Then, he immediately grabbed his rifle from the corner, and stood peering out into the night. He had been working with no additional light except the lantern hanging outside the barn doorway, enjoying the frequent display of brilliant flashes outside the open door, so his eyes were already adjusted to the darkness.

Seeing no one, he made his quick, hobbling, hopping way across the clearing by the barn and toward the concealment of the trees behind the station. He continued on, making his way up the steep path beyond that cut across the peninsula of trees and rock, created by the wide, curving approach of the road coming in from the east.

His vantage point behind the rocks provided the perfect overlook of the road below, and another flash of lightning offered him enough visibility to send him into immediate action at what he saw.

Approaching him was a struggling horse, its progress up the road, and toward the last curve before the station, hindered by something large hanging down from the saddle on the off side, the side closest to him.

Though he could not be sure in the wet darkness, he believed the shape was a person, a person holding on to the saddle horn.

Suddenly, another flash of lightning confirmed it, the momentary light turning the clinging person’s hair into quicksilver.

It looked like a woman, like. . . ?

Trying to make sense of it all, Ogden’s eyes were immediately drawn further down the road to his far left. He could just make out two horses and two riders, giving chase.

Piecing it together was not hard.

The shots he had heard must have been fired by the two coming up the road.

But, was that really her . . . ? He could not be sure yet, but . . . his eyes narrowed at the worrisome thought that continued to insert itself inside his head.

He placed the length of the gun in a crack between two rocks and prepared to take aim, but held off until he could be sure of what he was seeing.

He waited.

There.

Another flash of lightning confirmed it.

As the horse drew even with him, still galloping, the shape took on a distinction that he had not wanted to contemplate, but could not ignore.

Recognizing her unmistakable hair, he realized she was holding onto the side of the horse, hanging down on the right side below the saddle, both feet and knees drawn up, with one boot planted in the stirrup, and both hands clinging to the saddle horn.

With difficulty, he tore his incredulous eyes away from her as she passed him, and he drew a bead on her pursuers.

He could see them more clearly now, their horses steadily gaining on hers. Both men had their pistols drawn, and, as she topped the ridgeline at the crest of the curve, one leveled his to fire again.

* * * * * * * *

Just a little further.

If she could just keep the horse moving a little further.

She concentrated on keeping her foot in the stirrup, hugging her body as close to the chestnut as possible. Silently thanking the episode with the coyote over thirty minutes before for giving her the idea of using the horse’s body as cover from their bullets, she kept herself focused on the single thought, “Just a little further!”

Her arms screamed for relief, her wrists raw from the ropes that were both keeping her safe from the plunging hooves beneath her and causing her an agony she tried in vain to ignore. Her left shoulder, where the bullet had skimmed across her arm hours before, throbbed unmercifully.

A little further.

If she could just get beyond the bend in the road, just get to the top of the ridge, she might have a chance.

Turning her head quickly, gauging the distance of the riders behind her, she immediately looked forward again. She forced herself to focus on the horse beneath her, on keeping him going with her voice.

“Hi! Hi!” she shouted.

They were gaining on her.

She was sure of it.

And, from the glint of lightning on a pistol, she was also sure they had spotted her now, had realized she was still on the horse.

She squeezed her body as close to the side of the animal as possible, paying little heed to the painful protests of her arms and legs, her only thought that------if they shot the horse out from under her, . . . .

“Hi! Hi!” she urged him on and waited for the shots she knew would come at any second.

* * * * * * * *

They were gaining on the horse, theirs plunging up the road, urged on by merciless spurs.

Though they had slowed briefly as they had searched the sides of the road for her body, it had quickly become apparent that she had not fallen.

Then, Mason had realized his mistake.

In his eagerness to find her, he had momentarily forgotten that Jed had tied her to the saddle horn.

Yelling to Jed, he had sent them both forward again in frantic pursuit.

He had suddenly remembered that, even if he had hit her with his previous shots, she couldn’t be lying on the side of the road. She could not be anywhere, but still tied to the horse.

Now, he prepared to shoot the animal from beside her if necessary to prevent her escape.

* * * * * * * *

The blood was pounding in her head, the rain beating down on her making it difficult to see.

The flash of lightning was closely followed by a crack of thunder, and that was succeeded by two quick shots.

She felt the horse falter, and she cried out, her eyes closing for a second that stretched into the distance like the roll of the almost continuous thunder.

It was over.

She had done all she could do.

The faces of her family members------Jarrod, Nick, Audra, and Heath-----merged into a sharp feeling of loss and pain, as she waited for the ground to slam into her, waited for the weight of the falling horse to crash down upon her.

To be continued…