“I’ve been searching for you,” he said.
She laced her arm with his. “Did you look in on Adam?”
“I stopped at the Barretts first.”
“Both color and pulses are improving,” she said.
He patted her hand. “You’re a miracle worker.”
“I couldn’t have done the procedure without you.”
“You’re stronger than you think.”
They walked without speaking, welcoming the calm of the late-night hour.
“I’m so relieved John and Sarah and Henry know the truth. I hated deceiving them.”
A grin pulled at the corners of Cullen’s mouth. “You had no such compunction with me.”
“You’ll never forgive me, will you?”
He kissed the top of her head. “I forgave you before I asked you to marry me.”
In her heart, she had experienced the warmth of his forgiveness. If he could forgive her, if Henry, Sarah, and John could forgive her, then she should forgive her parents and Elliott. She no longer had the nagging ache in her gut and the emptiness in her soul. Soon, she would be a mother, and like her parents, she would do whatever she had to do to protect her child.
The time had come to forgive them. And while she was in a forgiving mood, she might as well forgive herself, too.
THE WAGON TRAIN approached the base of Flagstaff Hill, heading toward the Lone Tree and the Powder River. Kit and Cullen rode to the summit and dismounted. She peered out toward the horizon, relieved to have survived the monotonous trip from the Snake River through shoulder-high sagebrush.
“They say the optimist sees the magnificent lush green Baker Valley.”
“And what does the pessimist see?” Cullen asked.
“Those,” she said, pointing toward the snow-capped Blue Mountains etched against the dusk.” She entwined an arm around his waist and they watched the wagons roll westward across the valley. “I found a quote by Yeats in my dad’s notes. ‘I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’”
He kissed her. “I’d never tread on your dreams. I want to be one of them.”
“A ghost and now a dream? You certainly have high expectations.”
“I have only one expectation at the moment—fulfillment of a promise you made.” His murmur trailed down her neck.
She gave him a saucy smile. “And I intend to deliver.” She pulled him to the ground, wanting him with an incomprehensible madness. As the flaming sun drifted below the horizon, he entered her in a smoky haze of heat.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“DO YOU WANT to stretch your legs before we head back?” Cullen asked.
“Yes
.
” Kit dismounted, feeling stiff and achy. She stepped to the cliff’s edge that overlooked the Deschutes River to get a broader view of the falls and rapids. A low timber growth spread out before her, and the air smelled of river water and dead leaves and rain-soaked earth.
Travel had been hard since leaving Baker Valley. The trail had led through heavily forested mountains, then through a narrow pass, which ended the climb out of the Grand Ronde and the last stretch of the Blue Mountains. From there they’d descended the Umatilla Hill to the valley, crossed the Umatilla River, and headed into a forty-mile stretch of sandy land until they had reached the John Day River the day before. Now Cullen was scouting the Deschutes crossing.
Looking out over the expanse, Kit experienced an unsettling flutter in her stomach. Was it the baby? Cullen appeared somber and reflective. The sun caught in his eyes and for a second, she saw him as he had first appeared to her when she was ten. An isolated cloud cast his face in shadow. Her stomach fluttered again, and sweat trickled between her swollen breasts. Then the cloud moved away and the sun returned.
“I need to go the bushes,” she said.
Cullen gave her a pensive smile. “Give me the backpack. I’ll wear it.”
She slipped the pack off her shoulders and handed it to him, then walked down the trail. Why was she being so secretive? Because of the flutter? She wanted to see if it would happen again before she told him. He’d want to know everything about it, and she’d be embarrassed if it was just gas or something else. It didn’t happen again, and a few minutes later, she walked out the bushes, cinching her belt. “I’m ready—”
The words stuck in her throat. She stopped cold. A few feet away, two men held guns aimed at Cullen’s chest. The air was wrapped in an odor of rot, decay, and death. Adrenalin rushed through her. She needed to distract the men and give Cullen a chance to draw against them. But how? Call attention to herself? She licked her lips, prepared to—
A powerful arm covered with thick red scars grabbed her in a headlock. “Here’s the other one, Jess. Gussied up like a boy.” His rancid breath blew hot on her neck.
Thick red scars.
One of the witnesses at the fort had used that description the night she sketched the faces of the ghost train killers. Hard angles, skin stretched tight across their bones, ruddy complexions, and scars. But her sketches had not captured the depth of evil in their soul-less eyes, burning like a raging fire.
“Looks like you caught us a sage hen, Billy. Pretty ‘nough to eat fer sure.” Jess’s scaly skin and rigid snout somehow matched the sinister rattle in his throat.
Billy squeezed her breast, letting out a long, slow whistle. “Handful’s what I got. I caught her. I get her first. We’ll chock up nice.” His icy laugh slithered over her.
She had to do something fast. Her lips formed a tight seam, holding back fear for Cullen and her unborn child. She would kill for both of them. First, she had to disarm the man holding her.
Cullen’s nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed into two slits of blue ice. He lurched forward. Jess pressed his gun against Cullen’s ribs.
“You looking to die?”
Kit pinned him with a frozen stare, and he eased back.
“Didn’t think so.” Jess smashed his elbow into Cullen’s gut. He doubled over, letting out a low groan.
Kit’s stomach muscles clenched.
Billy ripped her shirt open with his callused hand. “Think he wants to watch me poke you?” He kissed her neck. Vomit raced up her throat, but she swallowed it back. “We’re going to the bushes. Let him listen to you scream and wonder what hole I’m poking ya in.” He humped her from behind.
That did it.
Another dose of adrenalin swelled through her veins. Whatever she did needed to be quick and deadly. She prepared to fight to the end if necessary. She searched Cullen’s eyes for a sign that he expected her to act. His gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly.
Silence swamped her as she moved beyond herself. She no longer heard the tumbling rapids behind her, Billy’s vulgar threats, or the bass drumbeat of her heart.
Silence. Deadly silence.
With their faces only inches apart and Billy’s sickening spittle on her neck, she grabbed his arm with both hands and dropped into a straddle-leg stance. The sudden move pulled him off balance and unable to maintain his hold. She threw a quick elbow punch to his right side followed immediately by one to his left. She stomped on his instep, feeling the soft, worn leather of his boot give way.
Without losing momentum, she turned, brought up her knee, and broke his arm, the crack loud and violent. Warm blood sprayed on her face from the compound fracture. Quickly, she snapped another kick behind his knee. He dropped.
A swift kick to the groin produced a gut-hollowing scream of agony. His eyes grew wide with pain and disbelief. She jammed her forearm into his Adam’s apple. A slow wet stain covered his trousers as he crumpled into a lifeless heap.
You’ll never touch me again, asshole.
She tried to steady the frantic rise and fall of her chest.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Cullen land an elbow to Jess’s face, breaking his nose and follow up with a rib-cracking punch.
The third man’s neck veins bulged. He pointed his gun at Cullen but Jess stood in the line of fire, so he waved the gun toward Kit. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She dropped and rolled, swung her legs and swept the man’s feet from under him. He dropped the gun as he went down on one knee, but immediately scrambled to his feet. He grabbed the front of her shirt with a meaty fist, tangling his fingers in the cloth. The force was enough to steal her breath, but she stepped back and dipped underneath his shoulder, just as she’d been trained. The move twisted his hand, which freed her to whack down on his right arm. Splintering bone gave her silent satisfaction. He screamed.
His pockmarked face glowed with an angry red sheen. He released her shirt but grabbed her hair with his uninjured hand and yanked her head back. Kit gagged on the pungent whiskey odor on his breath. She pinned his hand, regaining control of her hair, then torqued her body until he let her go, but he smacked her face. She bit back the pain, and with a whipping action of her shoulder and arm, threw a hand strike to his temple. His head whipped back. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Cullen connected with another punch to Jess’s stomach and wrestled for the gun. Then an explosion—a whip-crack sound of a bullet.
Kit, swimming in a sharp current of fear, swiveled toward the pistol shot and the caustic smell of spent gunfire. She watched with horror as Cullen grabbed his shoulder, blood oozing between his fingers.
Jess plunged his beefy fist into Cullen’s chest, forcing him backwards toward the cliff’s edge. Caught off-balanced, Cullen struggled to right himself. But there was nothing to grab. His eyes met hers, embracing her with love for one long indefinable moment. “I love you.” His mouth moved soundlessly. And then he was gone.
Jess turned the gun toward her, blood dripping from his nose and the corners of his mouth. Her adrenalin went haywire while the seconds of her life ticked toward zero. No time to think. She reacted, spinning counterclockwise. She kicked him and smashed his arm. Another kick shoved his testicles into his abdomen. More blood spewed from his mouth.
Her world turned blood red.
She threw one final jab with her hand directly into his windpipe. His eye grew wide with shock and disbelief. He gurgled, trying to speak and deny what he obviously knew to be true. He was a dead man standing. And with his thoughts telegraphing across his face, he toppled over and crushed his head on the corner of a large rock.
Frantically, with her heart in her mouth, Kit dropped to all fours and crawled, following blood spores to the cliff’s edge. She leaned over into the emptiness and screamed.
“Cullen!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
KIT RODE ALONG the riverbank, leaning from the saddle, searching the ground for any sign Cullen had come ashore. After repeated dismounts to study broken branches and dark stains on the dry ground, she gave up riding and walked. Fear clung to her ankles and each weighted step dragged her farther into a rising pit of despair.
She found nothing. No blood, no footprints, no trampled underbrush. But she wasn’t an experienced tracker. She needed help. She needed Henry. That meant delaying the search and racing back to camp.
I have to go, Cullen, but I’ll be back. We’ll find you. I promise. Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.
She gathered Cullen’s and the dead men’s horses, put heels to Stormy, and galloped toward the wagon train. She passed landmarks Cullen had pointed out earlier in the day. Two of them she missed because her eyes were too blurry with tears to watch where she was going. Backtracking wasted precious time. Jasper and the other three horses slowed her down, but she couldn’t have left them behind. She knew bringing them along wasn’t logical, but somehow worrying over the horses helped her construct a wall of denial, and she snugged in behind it.
Cullen was missing.
Only
missing.
Her denial grew even stronger while watching the sun struggle to show itself from behind fast-scudding rainclouds. It won’t rain. Not yet. Not until she found her husband.
KIT SPOTTED THE red cross she’d painted on her wagon’s canvas. She needed more than medical help right now. She needed Henry. An inkling of hope crawled up her brick wall of denial. Grab Henry and hurry back to the river. There’d be no time for discussion or debate.
Kit jerked on the reins and stopped at the Barretts’ campsite, the horses lathered up and blowing, their hooves swirling dirt and dust up around her. She spotted Henry and John right away and waved frantically. They dropped the map they were studying and race toward her, alarm written on their creased faces.
Henry reached her first and grasped Stormy’s bridle to settle him. “What’s wrong?”
“Where’s Cullen?” John asked, taking the lead rope attached to the other horses.
“We got jumped.” She was breathing too fast, making speech difficult. “Cullen fell into the Deschutes. I need…I need you to come back with me. Now.”
Who jumped you?” Henry asked.
Kit was overbreathing, and the faster she breathed the more panicky she became. She covered her mouth with clammy hands and breathed in and out, trying to get CO2 back into her system. Too late. Her arms and legs went numb, and she tumbled out of the saddle.
KIT MOANED AND snuggled into Cullen’s chest. No, it wasn’t Cullen’s scent. Who was carrying her, taking her farther from her husband? She wrestled her arms free and pushed.
“I got you, missy. No one’s going to hurt you.” Henry’s soothing voice gave her a moment’s reprieve. Her eyes fluttered, then opened. She stared up into his weathered face.
“Oh, God.” She wiggled to get free. “We need to hurry. Cullen needs us.”
“Tell me what happened?” He carried her to the Barretts’ dining tent and set her on the bench next to the table.
Sarah hurried in behind Henry, wringing her hands. A contingent of men followed, bringing a buzz of low-voiced conversations. One man’s voice raised above the others, asking, “What happened? Where’s Cullen?”
Henry held up his hand, demanding silence from the gathering. “Step back and give her room to breathe.” He squatted in front of Kit and took her hand in his. “Now, start at the beginning.”