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Silas offered her a woolen blanket then turned aside and made camp. They hadn’t traveled far when darkness descended, and the donkey she’d ridden came to a halt. The beast had been pleasant enough for travel but apparently didn’t care for the lack of light.
Curled up, her face toward the flames, Lillian couldn’t rest, though, for replaying the last few days in a repetitive loop. One thing plagued her more than others—the story Silas and Samson had avoided telling. As painful as it must be for them, after what she’d endured on their behalf, she had a right to know.
“What happened to your mother?”
Shadows leapt on Silas’s face, like the fingers of demons, playing with the fire.
“If it makes it any easier, I will tell you about mine. She had consumption. She died while my father was off chasing some thief. He couldn’t go far enough nor ride fast enough to ‘get his man.’” Resentment curdled in her voice, though she hadn’t meant to sound that way.
If Silas noticed, he didn’t say anything, but stared in the flames, staying quiet long enough Lillian worried she’d asked too much.
“Papa shot a man for stealing a cow,” he said at last. “The man was poor, simply wanted milk to feed his infant son. I was seventeen. Samson was fifteen.”
His father had committed murder rather than share sustenance? Her stomach clenched. Lillian exhaled, willing the sensation away. She should not judge. Her father had done unrighteousness in the name of the badge, and one sin wasn’t any larger or smaller than another. She couldn’t condemn one man without applying equal standards to someone else.
“The man’s wife went to live with her brother,” Silas continued, “a low-down sort who drank and gambled most of his money away. She wasn’t any better off, as far as provision and eventually, her son took sick and died. Loss will make someone do unheard-of things ...” A dark tone rasped in his voice. “One day, she got it in her head to speak to Mama. I guess she figured, since Papa had killed her husband and her son, we owed her.”
“I’ve heard enough rumors about your father,” Lillian said, “to know how foolish that was.”
This drew Silas’s gaze again, but as before, he didn’t comment. He looked away.
“She waited until Papa wasn’t home,” he said. “She showed up, beggin’ and pleadin’, but angry-like. Of course, Mama turned her away. Shut the door in her face.” He paused. “I won’t lie. Mama could be sharp when she wanted to, on account of all those years of living with Papa. In any case, the door was closed, and we thought that was the end of it.”
“I take it she returned?”
He inclined his head. “She broke in the bedroom window and came at Mama with an axe.” He shuddered and curled in on himself. “’An eye for an eye,’ Papa always said. He preached it to others and reaped it for himself. And there she was swinging the axe, and me havin’ been taught from the moment I could walk how to shoot accurately. But I didn’t have my gun, often didn’t carry it when I was inside.”
He seemed lost, for a moment, then coughed. “It was sitting on the table, a few paces away, but before I could reach it, she buried the axe in Mama’s shoulder. I froze. Mama laid there, blood seepin’ everywhere. The woman ran off, and I didn’t know what to do. But I knew no one anywhere would come to help, fearin’ my father, and I didn’t want to draw the law’s eye, so I tended her as best I could. Only, she got worse instead of better.” Silas make a shallow breath. “Next night, she calls me over. ‘I’m gonna die,’ she says. ‘I’d rather end it now than drag it out. I want you to take care of it.’”
Lillian gasped, one hand curved over her lips. “Oh, that’s ...” Horrible. Awful. Something no one should have to contemplate. But grief exposed, raw, on Silas’s face. He’d had to face it and make a choice. A life-altering one.
“I did as she asked,” he said, “then I vowed to get out of there. I buried her first, cleaned up the place as best I could, and packed my things and left the next morning.”
Lillian’s heart squeezed. “I’m so sorry.”
Silas waved one hand outward. “God has forgiven me, but the memory returns from time-to-time, the devil’s torment, alongside my father’s hatred of me for it. I prayed for him many times, but in the end, he died as he lived.”
“And the woman?”
“Drowned herself in the Pecos. Samson told me that. What he didn’t tell me was how he faced our father’s bitterness. Papa went to find him, and they had words. He wouldn’t allow himself to forget it or live free of it ... until you came along. Now, he’s afraid of losing like that again ... and feels he doesn’t deserve happiness anyway.”
That sounded more personal, like something Silas had told himself. She didn’t say so but posed a different question. “How long before you saw each other?”
“Not until Papa died. I came for the funeral and never left. Never could find a church here. In this desert, I’m Silas Renegade, son of a murdering criminal, and most believe there’s no cure for that.”
“You stayed for your brother,” she said.
He poked the fire, sparks dancing around his face. “There’s no one else to keep him grounded. I know what it’s like to die inside for what you’ve done, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
The night air closed in around them, forbidding further conversation. Lillian shut her eyes and willed herself toward sleep. She had days of travel yet to endure, three, at least. She’d need every ounce of strength and energy she had to reach their destination.
Yet, her mind darkening, her thoughts falling still, her body remained strung on edge, her senses heightened to their surroundings, habits formed to fit the lifestyle of a man always living one step away from getting caught.
The added weight to the pack pulled the horse sideways, mid-river, and for a moment, Samson’s heart seized. Grasping the bridle, he brought the mare to a halt and redirected her through a shallower portion and up onto the far bank.
He readjusted the pack, fingering, briefly, the valuables tucked inside.
Though he hadn’t participated in the raid on the Villa Marco, he’d earned a portion of the takings through a debt someone owed. But the death of the homeowner, his wife, and children during the raid had soured him to any use of it, so he’d bade Enrico hide the loot and never asked where. Until now.
Samson urged the horse forward, onto the upper trail. The horse’s breaths labored with the ascent, and at the top, he steered the creature into the brush and removed the pack, taking a seat.
Raiding the villa had been a mistake that’d brought bounty hunters out of every corner of Texas. His name had gotten caught up in it, despite his absence that night, forcing him to lay low until the story died down. Died down as much as could be expected. Mention the incident to anyone, and, even after all this time, it came back up again.
He ducked his head from the searing sun, a bead of sweat soaking into his collar, and his thoughts turned back to Lillian. He’d felt her absence during the night. He’d missed her chatter this morning ... and the pleasantness of her figure as he rode.
Samson blew out a breath, his frustration boiling over.
How could he be more alone, having met her, than in all the years he’d survived this far with no one to please but himself? Even worse, he pictured her in his head every moment, knowing how she must’ve reacted, discovering he’d gone. Chances were, she’d tried, immediately, to convince his brother to take her home.
Would he? After Victoria died, Silas had softened a great deal. He’d loved her and, as he’d seen for himself days ago, blamed himself for her passing. The idea his wayward brother could find that same happiness satisfied him. But there’d be none with every lawman in Texas on his tail.
He hoped Silas would seek Lillian’s safety first and not return her to her father until he’d left the area. That hope might be in vain. She was a most determined woman ... and thinking of that, in a danger she wouldn’t expect. He’d lied to Silva about their marriage, and the outlaw, once he’d fed Samson to the lions with theft of the gold, would go after her just to please himself. To admit the truth of their relationship, after how they’d playacted in the desert, would give her a reputation she didn’t deserve. Francisco would see to it all the wrong sorts knew.
Weighed with this knowledge, a half hour passed before he reloaded the horse and continued on his way. Two days later, at the edge of the desert, he slowed, vigilant to avoid any human contact.
Only a few places would take in a man like Francisco, especially if he was gathering others, likeminded. The hostelry down below was, in his opinion, the lowest of the low. Also, the most remote. Even a dedicated lawman like McCann would reconsider visiting it and, certainly, not at night. It was as likely to be filled with criminals as raided by the ever-present Apache.
Samson hid himself a fair distance, watching those who came and went, but of greater interest, the parade of horseflesh. Approaching on silent footsteps, he eased between the animals, taking a gelding by the head.
“Miss me, big fellow? Let’s take you somewhere safer.” He loosened the reins from the hitching post and embraced the animal, urging it backward. Once in clear-enough space, he mounted and traveled a quarter mile to where he’d left his brother’s mare. He tied the gelding alongside and paced one hundred yards to retrieve the pack.
Tossing it over his shoulder with a grunt, he headed toward the hostelry again but came to a halt in the shadows of the yard. He rolled his upcoming actions over in his mind and, decided on them, pushed forward.
The balding clerk, one hand edging under the counter, cast him a wary eye.
“Francisco Silva,” Samson said, feigning confidence.
The clerk, his face curiously blank, and needfully so, nodded toward the stairs. “Second door.”
Samson stared at him long enough he determined he meant no involvement then placed his back to the wall and climbed the stairs, swinging left into the hallway at the top. He edged to the second door and curved one hand on the knob.
A man in a battered hat stepped out, two rooms down. Samson adjusted his hold of the pack again and hovered his fingers over his gun. “Go in and lock the door.”
The man reversed, hasty, and Samson held in place until the man’s door clicked, then spun the knob. He dropped the pack at the outlaw’s feet. Two others leapt forward from the corners of the room, reaching for their guns. Francisco held his hand up, palm backward, with a slight motion, signaling them to hold.
“This is for the horse,” Samson said. He kicked the pack toward Silva and straightened. “It comes with a warning. What the desert couldn’t kill, your guns won’t. I’d hightail it out of Texas if I were you.”
The atmosphere thickened, every breath multiplying in volume.
“That all?” Francisco asked.
“And this.” Samson, in a flash of steel, raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The men on either side of Silva sank to the floor. Two fingers missing from one, a bullet in-and-out of the shoulder of the other, their groans filled the room. “The next one goes between your eyes if you so much as look at my wife.”
“She’s not your wife,” Silva said.
Samson shuffled toward the door, unblinking. Yet, he’d searched for the ring. “My brother’s an ordained minister,” he replied. “Who’s to say he hasn’t read us our marriage vows?”
Francisco’s lip twitched in apparent amusement. “I’m thinking you have more to fear from her father, my friend. It’s hard having law-abiding inlaws, yes?”
Samson didn’t answer but reversed out the door and sprinted down the stairs. He returned to the horses, grateful for the darkness. “Let’s get moving,” he said, gathering the reins of the mare in one hand. He tapped the gelding’s sides and set out southwest.
His thoughts returned to Lillian. As much as he wanted to put her behind him, he had to protect her first, which might be the hardest task of all. But tonight, he needed sleep, somewhere miles from this. Francisco and any number of others would love to see him dead.
It wasn’t his time. Yet.
The donkey planted his hooves at the edge of the river, swiftly and firmly enough Lillian lost her seat. Hurled over his shoulder, she landed roughly on her hands, pain splintering upward from her left wrist. She swallowed a cry and hauled herself upward, unwilling to inconvenience Silas any further.
Surely, within a day’s time, the discomfort would ease. She could withstand it that long.
Yet, the following morning, it had swelled, twice its normal size, making mounting the stubborn donkey impossible. Her joint aching, she hesitated with the effort and so met Silas’s concerned gaze. “It’s my wrist. I twisted it in the fall and haven’t the strength to climb on.”
Silas dismounted. Grasping her elbow, he turned her arm upward. “Can you move your fingers at all?”
Though she winced with the effort, Lillian wriggled each in turn. Her pulse throbbed heavy in her fingertips.
“Probably a sprain,” he said, his voice frank. “Only thing we can do now is bandage it and fashion you a sling. You’ll need to keep it still.”
Turning aside, he dug a shirt from his things and tore strips from the hem, binding them around her wrist. He fashioned the remainder of the cloth around her neck and shoulder, suspending her arm, high on her chest.
“You’ll have to ride with me,” he said.
Riding with Silas was different from riding with Samson. The rocking motion of the horse that had fueled a great deal of body heat between her and Samson, made the ride awkward and uncomfortable instead. Silas was as strong, and certainly not less handsome, but seated himself as if he broke some rule.
Because she wasn’t Victoria? Because he hadn’t been this close to a woman since then? Mostly likely, both.
When they made camp at dusk, they sighed their relief, almost in tandem. The pain of her wrist combined with exhaustion from the cramped ride quickly drove her toward sleep. Her mind wouldn’t rest, though, thoughts forming images in rapid succession, and sometime later, the fragments of a dream snapped her awake.
She bolted upright, emitting a gasp.
Silas tipped his hat backward, his gaze alert.
Lillian gulped down the ball of fear lodged in her throat. “I ... had a bad dream.”
How childish, stated like that. But the dark images flickered, horrifying, in her mind. “It was just a dream,” she said. She wasn’t given to dreams, much less had ever had one come true. “Evil robbing me of my sleep.”
Silas looked as if he might reply. She prevented it.
“How’d you become a minister?” she blurted. What’d happened to change his life from an outlaw to man of the cloth? It seemed curious and sudden.
He shifted his gaze toward the fire. “A story for another time. You are safe. I would get some rest.”
The subject closed, Lillian lay down again and tried to think of happier things ... of seeing her father again, of walking the town boardwalk, of chatting with friends, and especially dining on more than dry biscuits, beans, and salt beef. She pictured Christmas with all its joys. Yet, thinking of the holiday as it’d always been, as she’d been happy experiencing it, as she might have expected it to be before meeting Samson, all were as flat and tasteless as their campfire meals and Deputy Anderson’s attentions laughable.
You could not dine on the finest cut of beef, sup on berries and pastries without everything else, from hence forth, being so much porridge.
Lillian squeezed her eyes shut. She should foster gratitude in her heart. She could have ended up in such awfulness, been taken by someone like Francisco, and been abused. Or killed. Instead, here she was within a short distance of home.
A rustle and a click brought her eyes open, once more. Silas looked away from her, his gun in his hand, the hammer cocked, the barrel pointed at the fire’s embers. Raising it, he sighted along its length, no sign of trembling in the motion.
Picturing some childhood memory? Or was it a more destructive moment than that? Perhaps, the awfulness of his mother’s death or his fear for his brother’s.
He lowered the weapon and disengaged the gun, balancing it in his lap.
Maybe that was simply how he kept those corners clean, as Maria had said.
And Samson? Where was he, right now? What was he thinking? Of her? His brother? Francisco? Or did he plot in the darkness how to free himself of all three?
Her eyes moistened. At this most holy time of year, on the eve of the Savior, come to save the world, men poised to kill each other. Where was salvation in that?