| |
LILLIAN AND THE KID. The only reasons he had to drag himself from the riverbank and put weight on his leg.
Mud pressed against his cheek, neck, and hands. Water lapped at his feet, and shaking gripped him.
He had to stand and walk. The cold would kill him as surely as Belardi would if he found him.
Yet a river lay between him and Belardi, and that river had bought him some time.
He splayed his hands in the mud and fought to his feet. A dull ache gripped his leg.
He stumbled up the bank, mud sucking at his shoes. His overcoat slapped wet against his legs, and a fit of coughing tore through him.
The riverbank gave way to a stretch of overgrown grass, then a cobbled street bordered by dilapidated houses.
He had to get to Georgia.
Guthrie would know something had happened when his minion didn’t check in to report Alberto’s activities and Guthrie found out the bozo had been killed. At the very least, Guthrie would know something was wrong when Alberto didn’t show up for their scheduled meeting.
And when Guthrie found out ...
No.
He had to head to Georgia and get Lillian and the kid to safety as fast as possible. Because he couldn’t telephone unless he wanted to alert Guthrie’s man in Georgia. Guthrie would’ve instructed his man to pay off the operator.
He couldn’t go back to Guthrie and try to explain things. Guthrie could kill Lillian and the kid to punish him for getting his cover blown.
But what if he didn’t get to Georgia in time? How much time did he even have? What if Guthrie’s man killed ...?
He stumbled and crashed to his knees. Sparks invaded the darkness, and lead encased his muscles. Warmth slicked his leg. The wound must’ve started bleeding again.
As if that mattered. As if anything mattered other than getting Lillian and the kid to safety.
If such a thing existed.
He staggered to his feet.
Steps sounded behind him, and he stumbled around.
Two men stopped before him. A knife glimmered in one’s hand.
As if he had to face these goons after everything else. “Got nothing for you.” As if he’d give them the money that would pay his train fare.
His legs betrayed him and carried him to the ground. Wind whipped around him, icy, harsh.
Both men stepped closer.
“All right. That’s enough. Get outta here.”
The men glanced over their shoulders, then bolted down a shadowy alley.
Weight pinned him against the cobblestones.
A hand gripped his shoulder and shook him. “You hurt?”
Lillian. The kid.
He shoved onto one elbow.
“Easy there. I’ll get you to the police station where you can warm up. Think you can walk?”
The man hauled him to his feet, draped Alberto’s arm over his shoulder, and forced him forward.
Black descended. Leather pressed against his face. An engine rumbled. Cold gnawed at him.
Lillian. He had to get to her.
Hands gripped him, pulled him away from the leather, and his shoes scraped the ground.
Then warmth surrounded him.
The hands released him, and softness gave way beneath him. The hands returned, tugged away his clothes, and covered him with something scratchy.
Inch by inch, heat crept over him, burning, tingling. Tightness wrapped around his leg, and he groaned.
He dragged his eyes open.
A cop stood over him, arms folded across his chest. Gray threaded his hair and beard, and wrinkles etched his face. “Don’t know what you got yourself into, mister, but you need a doc.”
“No.” The word rasped from him, and he shoved onto his elbows. The blanket slipped from his shoulders to rest against his chest. “Thanks for helping ... me, but ... can’t ... stay here.” The room, little more than a supply closet, blurred.
“You’re not going anywhere quick. Not on that leg. Here, see if you can’t get some of this down.”
Metal touched his lips, followed by a rush of hot, bitter coffee. He swallowed a couple of times.
The man pulled the cup away. “That’s enough for now.” He rested his hand on Alberto’s shoulder and shoved him down. “Lay still for a minute. You’re froze through.”
Slow breaths and a few blinks cleared the blur. He couldn’t stay here. He had to get to Lawrence City.
The man pulled over a chair and dropped into it. “I see that crazy look in your eyes, and it’s not going to do you any good. Why don’t you tell me how you came to take a swim in the river with a gunshot wound?”
Shivering swept through him, and he dragged the blanket to his chin.
“Go on. You’ve got nothing better to do.”
As if he’d tell the cop anything. There was no way to tell if he were one of the officers Belardi had paid off. “If you’ll get me some ... clothes, I’ll get out of here.”
The cop frowned. “Trying to kill yourself? You’ve got to warm up. Soaking in the river when it’s this cold ain’t healthy. Not to mention, you’ve lost a good bit of blood.”
As if he needed a reminder of the bullet hole in his leg.
“Give me my clothes back.” Not the best thing to say to a cop, but he had no time for pleasantries.
The man shook his head. “Boy, I’ll get you some clothes when you’re good and warmed up and after you’ve had a doc see to that leg. You’ll get an infection if you don’t get it seen to. Though I guess you’ve had worse.”
Black encroached on the room. “Any way you could patch it up?”
Because he couldn’t stay here. He had to get to Lillian and the kid. Now.
The cop laughed. “You don’t think too highly of yourself.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Let me get something better to wrap it with, and I’ll see what I can do.” The man stood and strode from the room.
He had to get out of here. No doubt, Belardi had a dozen men searching for him, and each second that passed brought Guthrie closer to the truth.
Protect Lillian and the kid. Please protect them.
Because he’d gotten so deep in this mess he couldn’t.
He shoved onto his elbows. The room contained nothing but the cot on which he lay, a couple of chairs, and a lamp on a little table.
The door swung open, and the cop swaggered in carrying a bundle of clothing, a roll of bandages, and a flask. He dropped everything but the bandages and the flask on the floor. “Something wrong with your hearing? Lay down.”
The man lowered himself onto the chair. “Let me put that better. Lay down, and I’ll tend your leg. This booze is going to light you up. And don’t scream either. I doubt the captain would like me dragging garbage outta the river and keeping it in the station.”
As if the man had dragged him out of the river. “What is this place?”
The man shook his head. “Just a supply closet I use for breaks on slow nights.”
He nudged the blanket away from Alberto’s right leg, unwound the makeshift, bloodstained bandage, and upended the flask over the wound.
Fire clawed at his thigh, and he hissed out a breath. “Went through?”
“Sure did. No lead in there.” The cop wrapped the wound and screwed the lid on his flask. “I guess I won’t push you for answers. I’ve been around long enough to tell when a man’s running from something.”
The cop stood, gathered the clothes he’d dropped on the floor, and set them on the chair. “Might as well get dressed. These should fit you all right. Found them in a suitcase belonging to a man about your size who got himself gunned down by a bunch of bootleggers. Hope that doesn’t bother you much.”
“As long as they’re dry, they’ll work fine.”
The man crossed to the door. “Get in them, and I’ll see about getting you a taxi. You got money?”
“Pretty sure it’s in your pocket. Keep a couple of the gold pieces and give me the rest.” He pushed himself upright, and his stomach turned.
The cop laughed and dug in his pocket. He threw a handful of coins onto the cot. “Wondered if you’d figure that one out.” Without another word, he exited the room.
Torturous minutes later, Alberto sank onto the cot, sweat dripping down his face. Yet he was clothed and dry. More than he could ask for. And he’d retrieved his shoulder holster from the pile of wet clothes the cop had left on the floor beside the cot.
With a shaking hand, he shoved the money into his pocket and struggled to his feet. Unsteady steps carried him to the door, and he pulled it open.
The cop turned to him. “I hailed you a cab. Driver said he’d wait until you got out there, but it’ll cost you some.”
“Thanks.” Alberto clapped the man on the shoulder. “How do I get out of here?”
The cop pointed. “That way. Make sure you’re not late to wherever you’re in such a hurry to get to.”
Late. No, the consequences were too high.
If only he had some assurance Lillian and the kid were still safe.
**
POTS CLANGED FROM THE kitchen. Ma’s and Carla’s laughter mingled. Sunshine poured through the open window and warmed his face.
Yet that warmth couldn’t truly touch him. Nothing could.
Take this from me, Lord. Let me live.
Because this—these endless days, these never-ending nights—wasn’t life. This room was his prison, the chair his shackles.
Why hadn’t the sniper’s bullet killed him instead of taking out Wilmont?
He slammed his fist to his dead leg. How could he wish to die? How could he despise the life God had given him?
He whispered a curse. If he’d spoken such a word as a boy, Ma would’ve washed his mouth out with soap and tanned his backside so he couldn’t sit for a week.
What had he become? What purpose did his life hold? Sure, he sat around making life miserable for others. Ma. Pa. Mae and Davis. Carla. Hazel.
Hazel. What kind of Christian man wouldn’t even forgive his own sister? He’d received her back from the dead, and he refused to speak a civil word to her. Another gift he’d despised. Yes, he’d spoken the words granting her forgiveness, but they’d meant nothing, had wasted the breath spent to utter them.
Yet she’d torn apart their family. She’d heaped yet another loss on him. And now, she’d come back acting as if she lived a new life, as if she weren’t the same girl who’d left those years ago.
But wasn’t she right?
And hadn’t he been forgiven so much? How could he refuse to forgive her? How could he go against God’s command?
He slammed his fist against his thigh yet again. He was nothing more than a wretch. An ungrateful wretch at that. He deserved the bullet that had ripped through him. He deserved the loss of his legs. He deserved this prison of a chair. And he deserved worse.
I can’t do it, Lord. You’ll have to give me strength to forgive her.
But did he even mean that prayer?
Footsteps creaked in the hall, and a tap came at the door. “Do you mind if I come in?”
Carla’s voice. After all, he’d asked her—through Ma—to come talk to him. Even though he’d avoided her since that wreck of an argument. She’d been only too happy to stay out of his way. Why would she want to be around him? He’d let her believe he cared, then yanked that hope away from her.
Better that he had. Better that she not see him for what he was—a miserable, ungrateful wretch.
But he still owed her an apology.
She knocked again. “Frank, may I come in?”
“Yes.” Of course, he had to sound like a disgruntled child who hadn’t gotten his way. Yet that’s what he was. An infant to be cared for. A baby who never matured or gained the desire to care for himself.
What woman could find that attractive?
She slipped into his room, leaving the door wide open, and sat in the chair beneath his window. The chair facing him.
Wisps of hair escaped the confines of her bun. Color brightened her cheeks, but she didn’t smile. Not that she had any reason to smile around him.
He cleared his throat. “I said some wrong things the other day. I’m sorry.”
She folded her hands on her lap. “I—I forgive you. I apologize as well.”
Could this conversation go any worse? “I led you on. That was wrong of me.”
Her chin quivered. “I’m still your friend. A few angry words between us doesn’t change that.”
“Why? What do you see in me that makes you want me as a friend?” Was it the anger, the sadness, maybe the weakness?
She unclasped her hands and tucked her hair behind her ears. “You stayed with me when I needed someone. After I was feeling better, you kept me company. You’re honest with me, even when you say things I don’t like.”
Red touched her face. “Yes, I see that chair you’re sitting in, and it doesn’t change a thing. I see how you’re prone to this sadness. I see that you sin and get angry just like I do. But you’re still my friend and my brother in Christ.”
He shouldn’t have called her in. He didn’t need to hear this, didn’t need her wearing him down, didn’t need to believe he could have a future with her.
She smiled. “But I also see a man who would give his life to save another. I see a man who wouldn’t leave me even though he’d worn himself to exhaustion. I see a man who’s selfless enough to go outside with me even when he knew it would make him remember.”
“Stop it.” She’d gone mad. She’d make him go mad. “You should leave.” If only he were a different man. If only he were the man she spoke of.
Her smile faded. “You know God’s with you.”
“Why doesn’t He help me? Why does He let me sit here suffering? Why doesn’t He make me walk? He did that for people in the Bible. Why not me?”
She didn’t even flinch. “He’s given you something far greater than the ability to walk. He’s forgiven your sins.”
Yes, God had forgiven his sins, his many sins. Something more precious than healing his legs. And he had the gall to be angry at God because he’d lost the use of his legs.
What had he become? He’d once had joy and peace. He’d once worshiped God. He’d once been thankful for all he’d been given.
Now, he was nothing but a prisoner. A prisoner of his mind. A prisoner of this chair.
He clenched his teeth. “Please leave.”
She offered him the saddest of smiles and walked from the room.
**
THE ASHTON’S ORANGE cat lay on Carla’s lap, providing welcome warmth. She stroked the cat before turning the page in the Sherlock Holmes novel. The same page that she’d read at least three times.
Evening shadows stretched across the parlor. She’d need to rise soon and light the lamps.
“You’re quiet tonight.” Mrs. Ashton glanced up from her knitting and nudged her rocking chair into motion. “You’d better not be feeling poorly.”
Carla rested the book on her knee. “It’s not my chest.” No, it was the man who sat in his room staring at the wall or flipping through some dreadful book about battles.
Mrs. Ashton resumed her knitting. “My boy’s a fool.”
“No. He’s been hurt.” But talking about him would do no good.
She settled the cat on the sofa beside her and stood. “I’d better light the lamps.”
The clicking of Mrs. Ashton’s needles mingled with the thud of her shoes against the floor as she moved from one lamp to another. Warm yellow light filled the room. “That’s better.”
An engine chugged outside, then cut off.
Mrs. Ashton glanced to the window. “That’s strange. Looks like Hazel’s back with Matteo. No reason for her to drive out from town twice in one day.” She set her knitting aside.
Carla motioned for her to stay seated. “Don’t worry. I’ll answer the door.”
A twinge of pain caught her chest, and she brushed her hand against it. Slow steps carried her to the door.
Please, Lord, don’t let anything be wrong. Little Matteo could be sick. Something could’ve happened to Hazel’s husband.
Or Hazel could’ve decided to take an evening drive to visit her family.
She had no reason to jump to conclusions. No reason other than a gunshot wound and two graves back in New York.
Lord, You are my Rock. Help me remember that.
Hurried footsteps sounded on the porch, and she pulled the door open.
Hazel rushed in, eyes wide, Matteo on her hip. “Where’s Ma? I need to talk to you both.”
No. Something was wrong. Something terrible.
“It’s not Matteo or your husband, is it?”
Hazel pressed the door closed. “Matteo’s fine. So is Alberto. As far as I know.” She pulled in a quick breath. “Where’s Ma?”
Carla strode toward the parlor, her legs unsteady. “She’s in here.” Once in the parlor, she sank onto the sofa and buried her hand in the cat’s soft fur.
Hazel dropped into the wingback chair and settled Matteo on her lap.
“You’re out twice in the same day? Not saying I mind, but it’s a mite unusual.” Mrs. Ashton lowered her knitting. “Might as well tell us what’s going on.”
Hazel’s gaze darted to Carla.
A family matter then. Something she didn’t need to be present for. She stood. “It’s getting late. I’d better ready myself for bed.”
Hazel shook her head, the motion whipping strands of hair around her face. “No. This concerns you more than any of us.”
That did nothing for her shaky legs. She sank onto the sofa. “How would it concern me? I don’t know anyone around here.” And her only living family members were busy in New York with their crimes. Unless ...
No. She was dead to them. If they’d wanted to find her here, they’d had weeks to do so.
Matteo babbled, and Hazel bounced him on her knees. “I was in the general store about thirty minutes ago and overheard a man asking Mr. Jackson—the owner—about you. The man introduced himself as Dario Belardi.”
No. This couldn’t happen. They couldn’t find her. Not her cousin. Not that horrid man who’d sat so silently while Emilio had threatened her the day of the funeral.
“How—how did ...?” She swallowed against a throat gone dry. “They think I’m dead.”
Hazel shook her head. “He—Dario—said something about seeing an article about the sheriff’s investigation in the paper. I had no idea there was ever an article. I don’t read the paper.”
Why had the sheriff allowed an article about the investigation to be published? “But surely that article came out weeks ago.” Long enough for a copy to reach New York. Long enough for one of Dario’s contacts to send him word.
Carla pushed to her feet. “I can’t stay here. He’ll come here. He’ll threaten you, or ...” Or kill them. Kill them as her family had killed Mamma and Papà.
Mrs. Ashton stood as well and crossed to the sofa. “You can’t leave. You’re not well enough.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ve got the shotgun loaded, and I’d be pleased to give this Dario both barrels. And I’ll give the same treatment to anyone else who wants to hurt you.”
No. “You can’t fight him. He’s too powerful. And he’s probably not alone.” Carla glanced toward Hazel. “Was he alone?”
“No. He had two other men waiting in a motorcar outside the store.” She pulled Matteo against her, and the baby whimpered. “But Mr. Jackson didn’t tell him anything. I doubt anyone else around here will. Not with that Yankee accent Dario has.”
But Dario had money, and he’d use that money to his advantage.
Carla stepped around Mrs. Ashton. “I’ve got to go. I-I’m thankful for all you’ve done. More thankful than you could ever know. But I can’t stay here and possibly bring harm to any of you.”
Mrs. Ashton gripped her arm. “You’re not strong enough yet. Don’t rush into this. We’ll find you a safe place to stay. If they come before then, you can hide in the cellar. Anything would be better than you running off alone. You don’t know this country, and you’ve got no means of travel.” She drew a long breath. “Or you could stay with Davis and Mae. Davis’s right handy with a gun, and he’s faced down those killers before.”
Hazel shook her head. “Davis is out of town on railroad business. Mae said he won’t be back for a few days.”
Not that it mattered. She couldn’t put Davis and Mae at risk either. “No. I can’t stay. No cellar or shotgun is going to stop them.” They’d kill her, but she wouldn’t take these kind, innocent people with her. “I’ve got to go. Please, please don’t try to stop me.”
Mrs. Ashton lowered her hand from Carla’s arm and propped her hands on her hips. “And you’re thinking you can just walk away? Not too many weeks ago, you were knocking at death’s door. You’ll kill yourself.”
All the arguing in the world wouldn’t make staying here right. “I have to leave.” She hurried to the doorway. A knife twisted in her chest, a reminder of just how correct Mrs. Ashton was.
“Stubborn girl. Take the farm truck if you’ve got to leave. I’m not having you walking all over the place. And I’ll give you the shotgun too.”
Her revolver would have to do. She couldn’t take Mrs. Ashton’s defense. Taking the family truck would be bad enough.
She climbed the stairs as fast as she could and hurried down the hall to the room she’d been using since Frank had moved back downstairs. After grabbing her coat and cramming all her belongings into her suitcase, she lifted the suitcase, teeth clenched against a rush of pain and dizziness, and crept down the stairs.
Mrs. Ashton and Hazel waited at the bottom.
Carla dropped the suitcase and coat at her feet.
Hazel caught Carla’s wrist. “You can’t leave. You’re much safer here than you would be anywhere else.”
A lie. A lie that would be too easy to believe.
She shook her head. “I need to tell Frank goodbye. Then I have to go. I can’t see any of you hurt.”
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Mrs. Ashton. “Thank you. I can’t say that enough.”
With a nod to Hazel, she rushed down the hallway and opened Frank’s door. He sat in the middle of the room, a book in his lap. Trembling swept over her. This couldn’t be happening. Dario couldn’t have found her.
Yet Hazel wouldn’t lie.
Frank glanced up, and his gaze locked on her. “What’s going on out there?”
She crossed the room with wavering steps and braced her hand against the armrest of the chair. “They’ve found me. I have to leave.”
**
HE GRIPPED HER WRIST. “What?”
Pallor claimed her face, and her dark eyes shot wide. “My family. They’ve found me. Hazel was in town and overheard my cousin asking about me. I can’t stay here.”
He tightened his hold on her wrist. “You’re not going anywhere. Go upstairs. Get Pa’s gun and bring it to me. It’s in the nightstand drawer.”
Her shoulders shook. “No. They’ll kill you. They’ll kill you like they did ...” She pressed her lips together. “No. I can’t stay.”
Because he was so weak and helpless he couldn’t protect her. Because she thought they’d kill him with no trouble. Because she didn’t trust him to protect her.
And why should she? He’d never shown her any kind of protection or dependability.
“I don’t need working legs to shoot a gun.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She gripped his forearm with her free hand. “I can’t watch you die. I can’t know you died because of me. I’ve got to leave. I just came to tell you goodbye.”
He couldn’t let her leave. “Get Pa’s gun. How many men did Hazel see?”
“Three. You can’t stop them.”
He could try. He would try. “I’m not letting anyone hurt you. I promise.”
Tears gathered in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. “Goodbye. I—I pray I haven’t put any of you at risk.”
“Carla ...”
But she turned and walked from the room, her footsteps hollow on the wood.
He propelled himself forward. He couldn’t let her leave. They’d find her. They’d kill her.
He rolled into the hallway.
She pulled open the front door, suitcase and coat in hand, and hurried from the house.
And Ma and Hazel stood there and watched.
He surged forward, almost tipping over the chair. “You can’t let her go. They’ll kill her. She’s hurt. She can’t fight them.”
The door. He had to get to the door. He had to stop her, had to protect her.
Ma stepped in front of him, gripped the chair, and forced him to a halt.
From outside, the truck grumbled to life.
He grabbed Ma’s hands, yet her grip held solid, built by years of hoeing the garden, doing the wash, and plowing the fields when Pa went on his drunken binges.
“Stop her. You have to stop her.”
Ma closed her eyes, her face aging years in a single moment. “There’s nothing we can do. I hate to say it, but she’s right. We can’t keep her safe here. She’s got a better chance on her own.”
A better chance of getting shot again. Of bleeding out on some dirt road, alone and in pain. Of driving the truck straight into a ditch. “Stop her. Get out there and stop her before it’s too late.”
The truck’s grumble changed as it slipped into gear. Too late. Already too late.
Tightness clenched his chest, his throat.
Ma pressed her hands to either side of his face and forced his head up. “You’ve got to breathe, Frank. And you’ve got to calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“She’s going to die. What does it matter if I’m sick?” His shouted words rang through the house, vibrated the glass.
Ma lowered her hands from his face. “Hazel, get on home. Matteo doesn’t need to be out this late.”
Hazel stepped to Ma’s side, Matteo in her arms, forehead creased. Like she cared about their well-being.
“Get home. We’ll be fine.” Steel slipped into Ma’s voice. “Lock your door. Keep a gun handy.”
Hazel frowned. “I don’t feel right leaving you out here. I don’t feel right at all.”
Ma turned, planting her hands on her hips. “You’ve got a baby to care for. Go. Now.”
Hazel hesitated.
“Go. I’ll not have my grandson in danger. Even if those men come here, we have nothing for them. She’s gone.”
Hazel pressed her lips together but walked to the door.
“Go after her. Get in Hazel’s motorcar and go after her.” A pathetic plea. One Ma wouldn’t heed.
She walked behind his chair, turned it around, and pushed him toward his room.
He couldn’t protect Carla. He couldn’t even make Ma listen.
She parked the chair in the middle of his room, closed the door, and came to stand before him. “You’ve got to calm down. You’re doing no one any good getting all worked up.”
How could he not get worked up? Ma had let Carla leave, had let her put herself in danger.
He slammed his fist against his unfeeling thigh. Useless. That’s what he was. Helpless to protect Carla, and she knew it. That’s why she’d left. She’d thought she’d be safer on her own than with him.
Ma rested her hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do.”
The truth. He could do nothing. Nothing to protect the girl he cared about. Nothing to protect his family should those men come here searching for Carla. Nothing to save the colonel from a sniper’s bullet.
Nothing.