| |
EVENING DARKENED THE cabin, and the shadows slipped inside. Somewhere outside the cabin, Moretti stood guard. Carla and Ethel cleaned up the supper dishes.
And he did what he did best—nothing.
Frank lowered his hand and squeezed his useless knee.
The Belardis had gotten much too close.
Carla and Ethel’s quiet conversation ceased, and light footsteps tapped across the wooden floor.
Carla lowered herself into the chair beside him and curled her feet beneath her. “You’re quiet.”
Of course she’d pick up on his mood despite her own worries. Worries clearly bothering her given the pallor of her skin and the dark smudges underscoring her eyes.
“Moretti will let us know if anything’s wrong. They’ll probably keep on looking and never come up this way.”
She lowered her gaze to her hands.
Some comfort he was. “But if they do come here, I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”
She glanced up, and tears glazed her eyes. “I know. I’m just afraid you’ll get hurt.”
“That’s how you think of me? As something fragile to be guarded? As someone no good for much of anything?”
Her eyes widened. “No. Just because I care for you and don’t want to see you hurt doesn’t mean I think you’re weak or fragile.”
His face heated, and he lowered his head. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth. “I guess I said the wrong thing.” Instead of comforting her, he’d lashed out at her. “I’m sorry.”
Her hand settled on his forearm, and he lifted his head.
She offered a small smile. “There’s nothing to forgive, but I’d rather we talk of something happier. Maybe about home.”
Home. She’d referred to the farm as home. “I never did take you out to see the river.” No, he’d been too much of a coward. “You’d like it. It’s real peaceful. Bordered by pine trees like the ones around this place. Mae and Davis are pretty fond of it. They used to take their moonlight strolls there before they were married.”
He forced a smile. “I’ll have to take you out there when we get back.”
If they got back. If the Belardis didn’t murder them both.
Those same doubts played across her face. “I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”
Ethel strode from her and Carla’s bedroom and settled in her rocking chair. With a grin, she pulled her knitting from the basket sitting beside the chair. “Don’t you mind me. I’ll just sit right here and knit while I’m chaperonin’. Gotta keep the lovebirds in line.”
Lovebirds? He wasn’t even holding her hand.
A flush stole over Carla’s face, and she eased her hand from his forearm. Maybe they had looked a little like lovebirds.
Ethel raised both eyebrows, her attention still focused on the knitting needles. “When are you goin’ out to take over the watchin’? I don’t want Moretti wearin’ himself out with that leg of his. Mighty cold too. You’d best bundle up before I take you out there.”
“I’m supposed to go out in about an hour.” Sitting alone in the cold night would give him time to pray. “Maybe I’ll go out a little sooner if you think he needs rest.”
She snorted. “That man was born needin’ rest. Far as I can tell, he’s set on killin’ himself. Can’t stay off that leg for nothin’. I ain’t never met such a stubborn Yankee.”
Carla laughed, and he let himself join her.
If only this calm would last.
**
THE SAME QUIETNESS that had plagued the town hovered over the cabin. Yet that quiet had been broken by the purr of three Rolls-Royce engines. Please don’t let that happen here.
But at least he’d hear them coming.
Alberto leaned against a pine tree. Clouds covered the sky, stealing any light the moon and stars would have provided. Though both curtains were drawn, glimmers of light still escaped from the cabin’s two front windows.
Muffled laughter filtered from inside.
Good. They were enjoying themselves.
Let it last. Keep the Belardis away from here. None of the people in the cabin needed to see that kind of bloodshed.
He pushed away from the pine and angled toward the road leading to the cabin. As if the two ruts could even be called a road. The only way in if the Belardis planned to drive. And if they walked in, they’d make enough noise to announce their presence. These woods weren’t anything like the New York or Atlanta streets they were accustomed to.
He bore the same disadvantage.
The cabin door squeaked open, and he turned, resting his hand on his .45.
Mrs. Carpenter carried Frank onto the porch and set him in one of the rocking chairs. Time for the kid’s guard duty, no doubt. Something the boy was more than capable of despite his paralysis.
Mrs. Carpenter patted Frank on the shoulder, walked inside, and closed the door with a thud.
Alberto limped toward the porch. “Ashton, I’m coming up there.” No need to get shot full of lead because the boy thought he was an enemy.
Stiffness and pain clawed at his leg, and he gritted his teeth. As if the wound couldn’t hurry up and heal.
“I see you.” Frank’s voice carried over what had once been a short distance.
Might as well have been a couple of miles now. The walk from town hadn’t done him a bit of good.
Slow, uneven steps carried him across the clearing and up the porch stairs. He leaned a shoulder against the sturdy log wall and let out a long breath.
“You all right?”
“Sure, I’m fine. Leg hurts is all.”
Frank drew his gun from his waistband, cocked it, slipped the safety on, and rested the weapon on his knee. “Go inside and take the weight off it. Let Ethel and Carla fuss over you.”
He didn’t need anyone fussing over him except for Lillian. “I’ll go in soon.” And not sleep a minute. If not for the kid’s oversensitive nature, he would’ve taken the entire night’s watch for himself. Yet the kid needed something to do, something to make himself feel useful.
“Have you seen anything?”
“No.” Nothing but sparks if he moved too fast.
Silence pressed over them, broken by the hiss of the breeze through the pines. Peaceful in an eerie way.
“Moretti, if something happens to me ...”
Alberto cursed. “Don’t talk like that.” And forgive me for talking like that. The cussing had to go. He wouldn’t have his kid growing up talking foul.
As if he’d have a chance to see his kid anytime soon. Or ever.
As if he had to sound as bad as Frank.
Frank sighed. “I might as well say it. You don’t have to like it. If something happens to me, make sure Carla gets back to the farm. Watch out for her.”
As if he’d do anything less. “Sure.”
“I hope you know I’d do the same for Hazel and Matteo.”
“Thanks.” As if he had any need for all this sentimental talk when his leg throbbed in time with his pulse.
“I know I acted bad about them before, but I was wrong. Took me too long to realize that.” Frank let out a sad laugh. “I’ll need to apologize to her if I get back.”
Couldn’t the kid stop talking as if he were about to die? “You got some kind of death wish?”
“No. But I’ve been in battles, and I’ve seen what can happen. I don’t want to be one of those men gasping and fighting to say things at the end they should’ve said a long time ago.”
“Fair enough.” Maybe the kid had a point. “You about done?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He clapped Frank on the shoulder. “Yell if you see anything. I’ll be out around two to take over.”
Yet instead of walking inside, he limped to the other end of the porch and rested both hands on the railing. Keep them safe. Don’t let the Belardis come here.
He squeezed the railing, and splinters pricked his palms. Whatever happens, I trust You.
**
THE DISTANT PURR OF three Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost engines cut above the stillness of the morning.
They’d found them.
Whatever happens, I trust You.
Alberto pushed away from the exterior of the cabin and limped inside. Three pairs of eyes locked on him. Mrs. Carpenter and Carla sat on the sofa, and Frank occupied a wingback.
“They’re coming. Get ready.” He grabbed another .45 and two boxes of ammunition and slipped them into his coat pockets.
Mrs. Carpenter stood and retrieved her shotgun.
He limped to the door. “Keep your heads down. Bar the door behind me.”
The purr increased to a growl as the motorcars powered up the hill.
Frank met his eyes. “Take care of yourself, Moretti.”
Alberto nodded, stepped onto the porch, and closed the door behind him. The bar thudded into place.
Protect them.
Quick, uneven steps carried him to the barn sitting a good twenty yards in front of and to the side of the cabin. Fire scorched his leg, but he jerked open the barn door and slipped into the dim interior.
The barn held nothing but a couple of old wagons, piles of equipment, Ethel’s truck, and the mustiness of ancient hay. He eased his gun from his shoulder holster and cocked it.
The Silver Ghosts rumbled closer, and his pulse spiked. Thirty seconds and they’d be here. No time to waste.
With a few limping strides, he came to the ladder leading to the hayloft. The best defensive position in the whole place.
Use had worn the rungs smooth, and he hauled himself up into the loft. He moved to the hayloft door and nudged it open enough to give himself room to aim.
Not that the wood would stop lead.
From here, he had a good view of the cabin and the poor excuse for a road approaching it. And he possessed the high ground.
The Silver Ghosts crept into sight.
He lowered himself to his stomach and propped on his elbows, the .45 extended in front of him.
The motorcars eased to a stop about fifteen yards from the cabin, one parallel to the cabin, one parallel to him, and the other at an awkward angle.
The cabin lay silent and dark. He’d shuttered all but the two front windows last night.
Take care of Lillian and the kid if I get hit.
As if he had to sound like Frank again.
The engines cut off, and dead silence reigned.
Doors clicked open. Men spilled from the motorcars and fired at the cabin.
He sighted on the closest and squeezed the trigger.
The .45 jerked in his hands.
The man fell to his knees, clutching his chest.
The others scrambled for cover, some around the Silver Ghosts, most in the pines. All returned fire.
The cabin windows shattered, and three shots rang out, one the crack of a rifle, another the roar of Mrs. Carpenter’s shotgun, and the other the pop of Carla’s revolver.
He fired again. Another man crashed to the ground and lay still.
Lead tore into the hayloft door, and splinters showered him.
More shots peppered the cabin. The acrid scent of spent powder washed over him, and the sporadic rhythm of shots rang through his ears.
A man darted from behind one of the motorcars toward the pines.
Alberto pulled the trigger twice, and the man stumbled to the side.
Lead slammed the hayloft door, and he flattened himself against the boards. Slivers of wood dug into his cheek, and agony clawed through his leg.
More shots cracked, these hitting lower and to his right. He rolled to the left. Tugs came at the shoulder of his coat, and his hat flew from his head.
Too close. Much too close.
He crept backward and crawled down the ladder. No use maintaining a position they’d focused on.
He limped to the barn wall and aimed through a gap provided by a missing board. Not as good of a view here, but at least he wouldn’t get shot full of holes as soon.
He squeezed off a few shots in the direction of the automobiles, dropped the empty gun onto an overturned bucket beside him, and pulled his spare from his pocket.
Lead tore through a board to his right and slammed into one of the old wagons.
He cocked the .45 and fired off a return shot.
Maybe they’d evened the odds a bit. He’d taken down three of the men. Frank and the rest had hit a couple more. That left five. Five against their four.
Not bad.
Unless the Belardis had planned for reinforcements.
“You killed my brother.” Emilio’s voice came from somewhere behind him.
Alberto spun, gun raised. His bad leg buckled, and he slammed into the wall. Splinters rained over his head thanks to more gunfire.
He eased the gun from side to side. No one stood in the barn with him.
“I’m aiming at your chest, Moretti. I could kill you right now.”
So this was how he’d die. In a dirty barn. Gunned down by a man he couldn’t even see.
“Show yourself and face me like a man.” And he’d have a chance to get out of this.
Gunfire rang in his ears.
If Emilio were outside the barn, he’d be able to see a hint of the man’s form through the cracks. Yet only light glowed between those cracks.
Emilio had gotten into the barn, had probably hidden behind one of the wagons or piles of equipment.
“And miss the chance to watch you squirm? I don’t think so.”
As if the man thought he could get in his head.
He had one chance, one poor chance to get out of this alive.
He threw himself to the ground. Rolled. Fought onto his back. Raised the .45. Agony cut through his leg, and lead slammed the dirt beside him.
Footsteps pounded.
A shadow loomed.
A shot echoed through the barn, and pain slammed his head against the dirt.
Warmth slicked his scalp.
He pulled the trigger.
A thud.
Then darkness. Only darkness.
**
FRANK PULLED THE TRIGGER and levered the brass from his rifle. Lead pounded the logs in an eerie rhythm.
Carla crouched beside his chair, her revolver aimed out the window.
“Ain’t no shots comin’ from the barn. Been a good five minutes.” Ethel’s voice cut above the racket of gunfire. She knelt alone at the window on the left side of the cabin. She’d exchanged her shotgun for a rifle.
Moretti. Either he’d taken a new position or he’d been hit.
“You think he’s been hit?” He fired another round toward the pine that sheltered one of the Belardis’ men, then glanced toward Ethel.
Deep lines etched her face. “I reckon they got him.”
“No.” Carla jerked her head toward him, her eyes huge in her pale face. “We’ve got to help him. We can’t leave him out there.”
An onslaught of shots destroyed the remains of the window, and he ducked. Carla pressed close to the glass-littered floor.
“Nothing we can do. They’d shoot us down before we made it halfway to the barn.” The cold truth of it. Moretti would say the same. He wouldn’t want any of them committing suicide in an attempt to help a man probably dead.
Dead. Poor Hazel. She’d lost yet another husband to violence.
Carla lowered her gun and crept backward.
He dropped the rifle to his lap and caught her sleeve. “No. You’re not going out there. You can’t do anything to help him.”
She met his eyes, tears filling her own. Without a word, she tugged away from him, lifted her revolver, and fired a couple of shots out the window. Not that she’d be able to see since she was crying. But at least she’d keep the men occupied and pinned down.
Once, he’d have crept out the back door, sneaked through the trees, and gotten behind them. Sure, they’d have shot him, but he’d have had a chance to take out some of them.
Gray edged from behind a tree.
He levered a round into the rifle, planted the Winchester against his shoulder, and fired. A man tumbled from behind the tree and raised a handgun.
Frank fired again.
The man jerked and lay still.
That left shots coming from three locations.
They had a chance of getting out of this alive. All of them but Moretti.
But the remaining men weren’t letting up given the hail of lead hitting the outside of the cabin and flying through the windows to tear into the far wall.
Let us get out of here alive, Lord. Please.
He fired another round toward the pines.
“Got one.” Ethel’s voice rang hard.
That left two.
She let out a yelp and ducked away from the window. “One ’bout got me.”
He turned his head from the window.
She waved him off. “Nothin’ but a scratch on my arm. Don’t give up now. Keep at ’em.”
More lead spit through the window, and he flattened his upper body to his legs, pressed Carla to the floor.
Her shoulder trembled against his palm.
Silence engulfed the cabin save for the ringing in his ears.
He struggled upright.
Ethel pushed from the floor. “Can’t see none of them.” She tossed her rifle to the floor and picked up the shotgun.
Carla reloaded her revolver, and he shoved more rounds into the Winchester.
Something slammed the back door. Once. Twice.
Every working muscle in his body tensed. He pulled air through his teeth and tightened his grip on the Winchester.
The door gave way to reveal two men, guns raised.
He pulled the trigger. Levered. Pulled the trigger again.
Gunfire echoed through the cabin.
Then silence reigned once again.
The two men lay in a heap in the doorway, unmoving.
The trembling hit him as it always had after battle, and he lowered the rifle to rest against the chair.
Carla surged toward him, and he opened his arms to her.
They were alive.