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EVENING TURNED THE road to shadows. Shadows that could hide any number of threats.
Carla dashed away a trickle of perspiration with the back of her hand and scrubbed the moisture against her open coat. She shouldn’t have stopped those hours this morning to sleep. She’d lost precious time, yet she couldn’t have kept driving. Doing so risked running the truck into a ditch much as she had the Packard.
Yet she’d made it past Atlanta by early afternoon despite frequent wrong turns, her rest stop, and her slow speed.
Not that it mattered. The truck had died on her even though it had plenty of fuel.
A rut along the side of the road caught her foot, and a knife twisted in her chest. She pressed her left hand against the wound and slipped her right hand into her pocket. The cool metal of her revolver met her fingers.
Burning invaded her legs, and a cramp tortured her side. All from keeping to a slow walk for hours on end. If Dario and his two men caught up to her ...
No. Dwelling on that outcome wouldn’t do any good.
For now, she had to keep putting one foot in front of the other until her legs gave out. Which would be soon given the spots encroaching on her vision.
Cold wind blasted her face and chilled her sweaty skin.
Step after step. Breath after gasping breath. The spots turned to occasional bursts of light.
Warmth. The heat rolling off the radiators back home. A cup of coffee warming her hands.
She gave her cheek a light slap. Giving in to the dullness lurking around the edges of her mind would provide her cousin that much more of an advantage.
Had she been wrong to stick to the road? Should she have set off through the fields instead?
She ran her tongue over her cracked lips. Surely she’d reach a town soon. She had enough money in her pocket to pay for a hotel room and a decent meal. Or better yet, a train ticket to some distant city.
If only the truck hadn’t left her stranded.
If only her family didn’t seek to kill her.
If only Mamma and Papà were alive and able to guide her.
If only she were back at the Ashtons’ house with Frank to keep her company.
If only ... The feeble wishes of a child.
Her knees buckled and carried her to the ground. Pain burst in her knees and chest, and a pathetic cry slipped between her lips.
She splayed her hands against the cold dirt and struggled to her feet. She couldn’t give in to defeat or the tears struggling for release. She had no choice but to keep going until she collapsed. Then she’d get up again. And again.
One wobbly step carried her forward, and she forced her other foot to follow suit. Guide me. Help me keep walking. Don’t let me stop. Hide me from them.
Another prayer to join the hundreds she’d lifted since last night.
The distant chug of an engine echoed behind her. No. They couldn’t have found her. But if they’d found the truck, they might’ve looked in her suitcase, seen her name inked on the silk lining, and taken a chance following the road.
Why had she been that stupid? Why hadn’t she made an attempt to hide the suitcase behind a tree or in some tall grass?
She stumbled into a farm field. No trees anywhere for hundreds of yards.
If only she’d paid more attention to her surroundings instead of getting caught up in her thoughts.
She forced her feet into a stumbling run. The farther she could get into the field the better. The approaching darkness would work in her favor, maybe shielding her from Dario and his men.
If her cousin even occupied the motorcar. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was only a farmer and his wife driving home.
Yet she couldn’t take a chance.
Hardened clumps of dirt rammed the toes of her shoes. Her breath tore from her lungs.
The engine slowed to an idle.
They couldn’t be stopping. Black draped her vision and stole away the field.
A motorcar door slammed shut. Footsteps crunched behind her.
Lead gripped her legs, followed by a rush of weightlessness. Dirt pounded her knees, her hands.
The footsteps beat an uneven rhythm behind her, closer. Closer.
She had to stand, had to run. But her legs rebelled.
She blinked against the blackness, and it lessened to a blur.
Her revolver.
She dragged one hand from the ground, shoved it into her pocket, and jerked the revolver free. With a trembling thumb, she pulled back the hammer, struggled onto her backside, and leveled the pistol on the approaching blur of a figure.
“Carla, put the gun down. It’s Moretti.”
Not Dario.
Hazel’s husband. The Prohibition agent.
“Put it down.”
And she still aimed the revolver at him. She lowered it to rest against her leg, her hand shaking, her whole body shaking.
He stumbled to his knees beside her and groaned. “You hurt?”
“N-no.” She lifted the revolver, eased the hammer down, and slipped the weapon into her pocket. “What are you doing here? You have to go back. He’ll find you. He’ll kill you.”
“Come on back to the motorcar. I’ve got to get you and Ashton someplace safe.” A slight slur weighted his words.
“Frank?” He couldn’t have come. Mr. Moretti couldn’t have let him come.
He gripped her elbow as if he intended to help her to her feet. “He insisted on coming. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Real worried about you.”
He’d come after her. He’d put himself in danger because of her. And he’d get himself killed. Because of her.
He struggled to his feet and brought her up with him. The field disintegrated into a swirl of black and sparks of light, and she sagged against him.
He wrapped an arm around her and hissed in a breath. Surely she couldn’t have hurt him. Her weight couldn’t be anything against such a big man. “Are you ... ill?”
“Let’s get back to the motorcar. I don’t like standing in the open.”
She blinked, and the blurry field returned. She eased away from him, but his hand found her arm.
He limped forward, guiding her along with him.
“Your leg ...”
“Shot. A while ago. Nothing to worry about.”
Yet he could scarcely walk, and the pallor of his face stood stark against the dusk.
“I can’t go with you. I’ll—I’ll put both of you in danger. You don’t understand. My family is ...”
He tightened his grip on her arm. “I know more about your family than I care to, and you’re not safe out here.”
“Will you take me back to Atlanta? I can stay there. I have enough money.”
“We’ll figure something out. For now, let’s get out of here.”
She blinked again, and her vision cleared. Hazel’s Ford rested on the side of the road, the passenger door open. Frank sat in the front seat, his gaze locked on her.
She stumbled away from Mr. Moretti and covered the remaining distance to the motorcar.
“Carla.” Frank reached for her.
She grasped his hands, and his cold fingers intertwined with hers.
He’d come for her. He did care about her, no matter what he’d said. And he’d put himself at risk because of it.
She braced herself against the open door of the motorcar. “You shouldn’t have come. You know that.”
“I shouldn’t have let you leave.”
Yet she’d had to leave. To stay would’ve been to invite destruction upon the Ashtons. “I ...”
An engine rumbled.
Shots cracked, and lead thudded against the Ford’s frame.
Frank shoved her to the ground.
**
AS IF BELARDI COULDN’T have picked a better time to find them. Alberto staggered forward, jerked the .45 from his shoulder holster, and cocked it.
No time to get the motorcar started. No time to put distance between them and Belardi.
He aimed at Belardi’s windshield and pulled the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand. Glass shattered. Curses erupted.
He bent low and hobbled across the rough ground.
A hot poker stabbed his thigh. Over and over.
Another shot rang out.
Belardi’s automobile rolled closer to Lillian’s Ford.
Carla huddled by the motorcar’s right front wheel, her revolver clenched in her hand. Frank half lay in the front seat, too much of a target should Belardi drive abreast of the Ford.
Alberto surged to the motorcar, gripped the front of Frank’s coat, dragged him from the seat, and hauled him to Carla. “Stay down. Get your gun out.”
No doubt, the boy would hate him for leaving him helpless, but helpless was better than shot full of lead.
Belardi’s automobile came to a stop abreast of them.
Alberto crouched as best as he could with his leg and fired toward Belardi’s motorcar.
Doors flew open, and the shadowy forms of three men took cover on the far side of the motorcar. Yet the automobile still idled.
Lead peppered the Ford, and Alberto pressed closer to its scant protection. Icy wind cut through his coat, and a shiver crawled up his spine.
A couple of shots echoed, one the lighter pop of Carla’s revolver and the other the roar of Frank’s .45.
Sparks flashed through his vision, and lightness swept over him. He couldn’t pass out. Doing so would leave two invalids to fight Belardi and his men.
As if he were much help in his shape. “Wait until you’ve got a clear shot. Let them waste their lead.”
Neither Frank nor Carla gave any response.
Dario’s laughter edged through the night. “You won’t get a clear shot. All of you are as good as dead.”
Cold washed through him, shook him.
Three more shots slammed the Ford. “Go on. Waste your rounds.”
Dario shouted a string of curses.
Alberto fisted a handful of small rocks and hurled them toward the field.
Belardi and his men responded with another round of gunfire.
Alberto forced a laugh, ears ringing. “Jumpy, aren’t you?” The falling darkness hindered their vision as much as it did his given that neither motorcar had its lights on. A blessing since the Ford provided poor cover.
“Moretti, you think you can cross Anthony Belardi and get away alive? And now you think you can protect my cousin?”
The man must’ve recognized his voice. As if this mess could get any worse.
“Don’t worry. We’ll kill you, the girl, and whoever else you’ve got with you. Make it easy on yourself and surrender.”
Alberto tightened his grip on the .45, his hands and face slick with sweat despite the cold wind. Heat now took the place of the ice that had reigned in his body moments before. “Quit cowering behind that automobile and drag me out.” If he played this right, he could use Dario’s anger against him.
Another round of lead slammed the Ford.
Keep Carla and Frank safe. Show me a way out of this.
The hiss of unintelligible whispers cut through the night. Whatever Dario planned couldn’t be good.
Alberto braced his left hand against the Ford, shoved from the ground, and eased high enough for a clear shot should Belardi try anything. Sweat stung his eyes.
A shadow slipped from behind the safety of Belardi’s motorcar.
A barrage of shots impacted the Ford.
Alberto leveled the .45 and fired. The shadow collapsed.
If not for his leg, he’d make an attempt much like the man he’d just shot. He needed to take out Dario and the other man before they hit him, Carla, or Frank.
A door clicked shut, and the automobile’s engine growled. The motorcar reversed.
He aimed toward the windshield and fired, yet the gaping hole held no outline of the two men.
Belardi’s automobile switched directions, and the engine surged.
His pulse spiked. “Get out of the way. They’re going to hit us.”
He gripped her arm and shoved her toward the field. “Hit the dirt as soon as you can.”
He caught a handful of Frank’s coat and dragged him from the cover of the Ford.
The engine shrieked. Metal crunched against metal.
His leg buckled, and he crashed to the hard, cold dirt.
Lead tore into the dirt an inch from his head.
He rolled to his back and brought up the .45.
Dario and the other man stormed from the motorcar, their guns flashing fire.
Heat brushed close to his head.
He pulled the trigger.
Dario pitched to the ground.
A shot exploded beside him, and the other man collapsed as Frank’s slug found its mark.
Black washed over Alberto, and he sagged against the icy ground. Chills tore through him, rattling his teeth. “Thanks, kid. You all right? You see Carla?”
“She’s right here beside me. She’s fine. And I’d be better if you’d help me up.”
As if he had the strength to haul Frank back to what was left of the Ford. “Give me ... a minute.”
“You’re hit?”
No doubt the boy would take pleasure in him bleeding out in an empty field. “No. But I’m real dizzy.”
Dirt crunched, and a shaky hand settled on his arm. Carla. Thank You for keeping her safe.
“It’s your leg, isn’t it?” Her hand moved from his arm to rest on his forehead. “You’re burning up.”
As if he needed the leg to go bad on him. “I’m all right. Give me a minute, and we’ll get out of here.” Though where would they go? He could take Frank back to the farm, but Carla couldn’t stay there. He’d have to find someplace else for her. Someplace safe. Someplace her family wouldn’t think to look.
Ice encased him. He hauled in breath after cold breath, and a dark sky took the place of his failed vision.
Carla hovered over him, her hand now resting on his shoulder.
Weight pressed over him, forbidding him to rise. “None of them are moving?”
She glanced away from him, and a shudder tore at her shoulders. “No. Not that I can see.”
More men that he’d killed.
Yet he’d had to defend Carla, Frank, and himself.
He holstered his gun, splayed his palms over the dirt, and shoved some of the way upright. Frank lay a couple of feet to his right, the .45 still in his hand, his body curved so both his feet and upper body faced the wrecked motorcars.
Carla slipped her arm behind his shoulders. As if she hadn’t been shot herself too few weeks ago.
He let out a slow breath. “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t worry.”
She stood, walked to Frank, crouched beside him, and helped him sit.
He had to stand, had to get both of them to safety.
Not that his leg would help him any. He struggled to his feet, blinking against a return of the black.
A hand gripped his arm. Carla again. “Will you go to the Ford? See if anything’s leaking from the engine. Gotta see if anything was hit. I’ll get Frank settled.”
His vision cleared, and she slipped away.
“All right, Ashton.” He bent over the kid, slipped his arms beneath him, and straightened. Agony clawed through his leg, and he bit back a stream of cuss words.
Step after slow, unsteady step carried him to the Ford, and he lowered Frank into the back seat.
The kid glanced up at him. “You need to get that leg seen to. I don’t think you can make it back to the farm.”
Alberto braced his hand on the Ford’s roof. “You worried about my health?”
Frank lowered his head. “I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He pushed away from the roof and closed the door.
One limping step brought him to the passenger door. Carla stood at the front of the motorcar, her hand resting on the hood. Her shoulders shook, but she made no sound.
“You see anything leaking?”
She shook her head and turned to him. “No. And the damage to the motorcar isn’t bad. They—they just skimmed the left side.” Tears streaked her face, and she pressed one hand to her chest.
He tipped his head to the still bodies of Dario and the other man. “They’re not going to hurt you.”
Yet when Anthony Belardi found out, he wouldn’t stop until he had revenge for his nephew’s death.
**
CARLA SAT BESIDE HIM, safe, close enough to touch.
Weakling that he was, he rested his arm across the back of the seat.
She leaned against him and swiped the sleeve of her coat over her face.
The dark landscape, lit only by a bit of moon, slipped by beyond the Ford.
Moretti steered the motorcar, the outline of his shoulders vibrating from more than the rough road. If his shaking were any indication, his fever hadn’t stopped rising.
“You can make him listen to reason.” Carla’s whisper wrapped around him. “He needs a doctor. I’m afraid for him.”
Moretti breathed something unintelligible. “Think I can’t hear you? We’ll stop once we get through Atlanta. Automobile won’t make it much farther than that. Lead must’ve hit something after all.”
“I can drive.” Carla pushed away from him and swiped her cheeks again.
If only he had the ability to take over the wheel. But no, he sat useless in the back seat while an injured man succumbed to infection.
“No need for that. But thanks.” Moretti tapped his fist against the wheel. “Should’ve known those three were behind us.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s got me on edge. Don’t know when Belardi or Guthrie’s going to track me down. Don’t want to have the two of you with me when it happens.”
“Don’t worry about us.” Carla’s concern for the man lay clear in her voice. “If we keep moving, they’ll have a harder time finding us.”
“And when we stop?” Moretti’s words slurred together.
If the man kept talking, he’d convince himself to push ahead, maybe by buying another motorcar or boarding a train, and he’d kill himself in the process. “If you don’t get to a doc, you’re going to be just as dead as if they’d killed you.”
Just as dead as the man he’d shot.
His stomach lurched.
Dead. Moretti had checked them before getting behind the wheel.
“Maybe you’re right. But I’m only stopping long enough to get this leg seen to and the Ford fixed. And I’ve got to decide where Carla can go.”
Frank fisted his right hand. He wasn’t leaving Carla. Moretti could try all he wanted to send him back to the farm, but that wasn’t happening.
“Why don’t we stop in Atlanta?” Carla clasped her hands in her lap.
“Belardi’s got operations there. Be best to get farther away if the Ford can make it.”
As if on cue, the engine shuddered.
Moretti accelerated.
Frank slipped his arm from the back of the seat.
Carla caught his hand. “You shouldn’t have come.”
This again? Did she think him that feeble? Most likely. He’d never given her much reason to believe otherwise. Just as he hadn’t tried to learn to live without use of his legs. No, he’d become a leech. A leech dependent on Ma for survival.
He’d been right to squash his and Carla’s foolish notions of romance before they’d had time to grow.
He drew a slow breath. “I had to. I couldn’t think of you out here, hurt and by yourself.”
Her grip on his hand tightened. “And I couldn’t think of you being killed because you and your family helped me out. That’s why I left. Not because I thought you couldn’t protect me. I didn’t want to put you in danger.”
She shook her head. “You shouldn’t have come. You were safe back at your farm.”
Safe. As safe as could be. So safe Dario and his goons had marched in and thrown him from his chair. Not that he could tell her any of that. “I’m not leaving you when I can do something to help you.”
“Stop arguing.” Moretti glanced over his shoulder, face washed of color. “I can’t think as it is.”
Carla gave his hand a final squeeze, then pulled away. “We’ll get past Atlanta, then figure everything out.”
The darkness slipped on. With each automobile they passed, Moretti’s shoulders tensed, and he slipped his hand in his coat. Several times, the engine sputtered but somehow resumed its chugging.
Atlanta blurred into a mass of bright lights, honking horns, and rude drivers.
Carla sat silent, her lips pressed together with either pain or emotion. Probably some combination of the two. She had to be exhausted. Once they found Moretti a doctor, he’d see the man checked Carla out as well. Then he’d insist she get some rest.
He could stand guard as well as anyone despite the weariness dulling the edges of his mind. He’d been weary for five years, and a sleepless night wouldn’t change anything.
Thirty minutes beyond Atlanta in a town three or four times the size of Lawrence City, Moretti braked in front of a white plank building proclaimed by a lopsided sign to be the doctor’s office and barbershop.
“I’ll check things out. Let you know if it’s all right in a couple of minutes.”
With painful slowness, he struggled from the automobile and hobbled to the office’s front door. Light shone from the windows despite the late hour.
A moment after Moretti knocked, the door swung open to reveal a man. The man gestured, mumbled something, and slammed the door.
Moretti stumbled back to the Ford, shaking his head. He settled in the front seat, his breaths coming too hard and fast.
“What’d he say?” Surely the doctor couldn’t have any business if he made a practice of refusing to care for those in need.
Moretti tipped his head back. “Said he’s full. A bunch of men got hold of some bad booze. Said there’s a woman who knows some about medicine a couple of miles outside of town.” He eased in a breath. “Guess we’ll see if the Ford can make it back to Lawrence City.”
“Can it?” Carla’s voice shook.
“I don’t think so.”
That was it. “Moretti, you’re not leaving us stranded out here. You might as well see if she can help you. Your leg’s not going to get any better.”
Moretti sighed. “All right.” The man had to be sick to give in with such ease. “But keep watch, Ashton. Don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to.”