“She wasn’t alone? Someone was with Esmerelda?” Fear spiked through Slade’s guts.
“Well, perhaps not with her, sir. But this someone did take off after the dog. As if he were following her.”
Suddenly, standing there in the bright moonlight, Slade was certain Hammonds wasn’t seeing things. Too much detail for him to be wrong. And what had he just told his men? Investigate everything. Slade looked over to the next property and applied suspicious logic to the circumstances.
If Esmerelda was running ahead of this someone, then she hadn’t been chasing him off Woodbridge Pond. That was good. But it also meant that someone here had escaped the notice of any and all his sentries and was now at Cloister Point. Now, who would be bounding after Esmerelda at this hour? Olivia? No, he’d certainly proved himself an ass there once. Then who? Everyone else was too old. Except for—Slade inhaled sharply. “Hammonds, what did this someone look like?”
Hammonds shook his head. “Why, I don’t know. I gained only a fleeting impression, sir. I could be completely wrong, but—”
“You’re not wrong. All our lives could be at stake, Hammonds. Now, think. What did this someone look like?”
“Um, er—a boy! That’s it, sir. A slender young man. In dark clothes. Running very fast, sir. Very fast. Like a greyhound.”
Slade settled his hands at his waist, thinking. Like a greyhound. Why did that sound familiar? Then he realized he’d said it. But who had he said it about? Son of a bitch. Hannah. Slade felt the life force drain right out of him. He bent forward, putting his hands on his knees.
“I say, sir, are you all right?”
Slade looked up at Hammonds. “I may never be all right again.” He then straightened up.
Hammonds remained silent, as if he knew Slade needed to think this through. But all Slade could think was It’s her. In a man’s clothes. Who else would be so bold? He’d kill her. He’d go get her, make sure she was unharmed, and then he would kill her. She was Isabel all over again—you couldn’t trust her ever to be where she said she would be. Or where you told her to stay.
Another thought leapt to the forefront of Slade’s feverishly working brain. “What are you doing out here looking for Esmerelda? I told Isabel to keep her in her room.”
Hammonds resettled the blanket around his shoulders and clutched at it with both hands. “Indeed, you did. But Mrs. Garrett had other plans.”
Certain his hair stood on end under his Stetson, Slade pulled himself up to his full height. “What the hell did you just say?”
Hammonds took two giant steps back. “I said Mrs. Garrett had other plans—”
“For the evening. I heard you. What other plans?”
Hammonds assumed his butler pose, managing to look imperious, even in his nightshirt and with his knobby knees. “I assure you, sir, that the lady of the house does not consult me as to her plans.”
Had the entire household absconded the minute he stepped outside? Was his word not law in his own home? Slade turned his head to sight on Cloister Point. Apparently not. Because if Hannah Wilton Lawless Garrett and Isabel Winifred Cummings Garrett were not this minute at Cloister Point, then he was a stripe-assed zebra. He looked back at his butler. “Son of a bitch.”
Hammonds breathed in through his nose, enough to puff his chest out. “I beg your pardon!”
But Slade heard the man’s protest on the run. He had to get there in time. He just had to. His heart pumping as fast as his legs, he sped toward the hedges that fronted the iron bars. Had to get to Hannah. Had to get to Isabel. He scratched and shoved his way through the shrubs, only to have his footing give way in knee-twisting suddenness. Cursing and clutching at the iron fence, Slade scrambled for even footing.
“Hammonds,” Slade called over his shoulder. “Go find Bekins. Tell him I’m going to Cloister Point and that I said I can handle this. Tell him to stay at his post and keep the other men at theirs. This could be a trap or a distraction. If it is, I don’t want Woodbridge Pond exposed. You got all that?”
“Yes, sir. I’m on my way. You can count on me.”
Well, that’s one, then. As Hammonds sped off, Slade, still clutching at two iron bars, looked down over his shoulder. Just as he’d suspected. A hole. A big hole. Big enough for Esmerelda. Big enough for Hannah. But not for him.
He’d kill them, that’s all there was to it. Gritting his teeth, he faced his immediate enemy. The fence. How best to get around it—or over it? He knew, from childhood years of looking up at it, that each bar was topped with a spear-shaped tip. If he tried to go over the top, one slip of his hand or foot and he would be impaled. In frustrated rage, he shook the fence, but succeeded only in rattling his own teeth.
Breathing hard, Slade tried to jiggle individual bars within his reach, checking for a possible loose one. Just one. That’s all he needed. Who the hell were the Wilton-Humeses trying to keep out, anyway? But he knew—his father. His drunken, enraged father, bent on forcing himself on a defenseless girl.
Was he his father’s son? He saw himself threatening Hannah at Cloister Point—in her mother’s room. And thought of the depth of his love for her now. How would he behave if she rejected him? Would he react any less violently?
Slade’s head slumped against the cold iron bars of reality. His breath clouded in front of his face. If he could forgive his father, it would be because he now understood what it meant to love. And possibly to lose. Raising his head, he looked across the grounds to the Cloister Point mansion. This fence, erected to keep his father out, wouldn’t keep him out. Because the difference between him and his father was that he wasn’t trying to hurt but to save.
Using his righteous anger to fuel his body, he crouched down like a mountain cat and filled his lungs with icy air. With a mighty effort, he vaulted up and up. Gripping the top horizontal railing between two spearheads, and swinging his legs over, he was on Wilton-Humes soil in one smooth leap. Resettling his Stetson and his pistols, he loped off toward the lighted room at the back of the mansion.
As he ran, each step echoed with but one thought—I’ll kill them, I’ll kill them. And he didn’t know exactly who he meant—Cyrus and Patience, or Hannah and Isabel. Maybe all four of them. Slade ignored his burning lungs, his labored breathing, his cramping legs. To slow down now could mean their deaths. Later he could be tired. But not now. Had to reach Hannah.
His eyes watering, his cheeks stinging with cold, Slade slowed only when he neared the mansion itself. The light from within spilled like a waterfall onto the lawn outside. Slade knew whom he’d see when he looked in. Hannah, Isabel, Cyrus, and Patience. He feared only what they’d be doing. Fighting in a pitched battle? Lying in pools of blood?
He swiped a hand under his nose and sucked in air through his open mouth. His first instinct was to kick open the French doors and burst into the room, guns blazing. And maybe get them all killed since he didn’t know the situation inside. He gritted his teeth in frustration. Dammit! Only that afternoon he’d cursed his own slowness to action, his tendency to think through every possibility, to weigh every option, before making a move.
And now, when it came right down to life or death, he had to rely on those same traits. The very ones of his which had seen no less than eight people dead in the past three months. How then could he save, in the next few moments, the two people he loved most in the world?
Images of Isabel and Hannah popped into his head. Immediately, a surge of pure instinct, pure emotion, welled up in him. Hell, yes, he could. Look out, Cyrus, you son of a bitch, I’m coming for you. Borrowing on every primitive instinct in his soul, Slade curled a lip and went into a crouching run alongside the white stone wall of Cloister Point, right up to the window. His back braced against the wall, he edged to his left, closer and closer to the French doors.
So far, no thumping and bumping or yells and hoarse cries assailed his ears. Only night sounds, the wind in the trees, the hooting of an owl. So, either he was in time or he was too late. Either way, Cyrus Wilton-Humes would die tonight. Slade reached for his twin pistols in their harness straps. His cold fingers fumbled slightly as he drew them out. Cocking each one, he held them up and ready. Pushing his hat to the back of his head, he peeked around the stone corner to look inside.
Tea. Isabel’s having tea with Cyrus and Patience. She’s having tea. Stunned into forgetting himself, Slade stepped into plain view and froze. Guns raised, he stood framed in the rectangular, many-paned glass of the closed doors. Just then, Isabel, the only one of the threesome who sat facing the doors, glanced up and saw him. She jerked back in her chair, her eyes went completely round, and she threw her teacup and saucer to the carpet. Cyrus and Patience jumped up. Now was his chance. Slade reached for the outside latch.
And someone caught him sideways in a full body blow. His Stetson and guns somersaulted with him down the wooded and sloped ground. He rolled and cursed and clutched at the earth … grabbed at a low branch … scratched for a handhold … dug for a toehold. And realized that whoever’d hit him was following him down. Finally, he lay at rest, on his back, in a depression at the slope’s end. Stunned, blinking, he lay there, trying to digest what had just happened. Hannah. Isabel. He had to get to them.
Slade came straight up, only to be knocked back onto the bone-jarringly hard ground. His attacker pressed into him, lying on his chest. Beyond enraged, past murderous, Slade gritted his teeth and curled his hands around the man’s … furry neck? What the hell? He felt further. Esmerelda! Slade pitched over onto his side, dislodging the mastiff at the same time he grabbed for her collar, scrambled to his feet, and kept a firm hand on her, lest she run off again. His voice no more than a hiss, he scolded, “What are you doing over here?”
Esmerelda woofed, jumping at him and nearly succeeding in knocking him to his knees. Damned dog was strong as an ox. Slade kept a death-grip on her collar and got right in her face. “Essie, you big horse, this is no time to play.”
Essie sounded a low growl in her chest, the first one Slade had ever heard from her. Surprised, he pulled back, and then realized she was trying to look back the way she’d come. She then set up a wrenching, twisting fight. Slade’s grip on her slipped. The mastiff took off in a mad tear, clambering effortlessly up the slope. Slade caught intermittent sight of her as she ran into and out of the moonlight. She finally disappeared around the back of the mansion. Could it be that Hannah was in that direction? Or was he just plain nuts for thinking the dog understood what was at stake here?
Only one way to find out. Slade quickly climbed up the hill after her. He peeked again into the parlor. Patience still had her back to him. Cyrus wasn’t in his chair. And that damned Isabel was sitting there, all composed and again sipping tea as if she were the Queen of England.
He waited until she next looked up and then caught her gaze. This time she remained cool and collected, never giving a thing away. Slade gestured, trying to signal What’s going on? Isabel made as if to smooth her hair but then stabbed her finger off to her right. Frowning, Slade stretched and craned, doing his level best to see what she meant. No good. Whoever or whatever she wanted him to see was blocked by the room’s corners and his restricted angle.
He then heard a hoarse cry. From inside the mansion. From inside the room where Isabel and Cyrus and Patience were. No—from where Patience and Isabel were. Where the hell was Cyrus? Tensing, straightening up, Slade narrowed his eyes, listening. The low cry sounded again. A mewling, feminine sound. Slade looked directly at his grandmother, and saw the wrenching fear in her eyes. Then, it came to him—another person was still missing from this little tableau. Hannah.
Slade cast his gaze to the building’s corner. Esmerelda’d gone that way. And Isabel pointed that way. Suddenly sure he had no time to look for his guns—as if he could find them in the tangled undergrowth of shrubs and trees all about, Slade slipped away from the doors and slouched around to the back of the mansion. Aha. A long, narrow window with a view into the room.
And outside with him stood Esmerelda, staring into it with an intensity that was almost human. Gone from her was all sign of playfulness. Gone was the puppy. In its place was a full-grown and deadly hunter, every muscle tensed, every sense honed. Sighting on Slade, she backed off a step, stared accusingly up at him—as if to say What took you so long?
A chill that had nothing to do with the deepening cold of the night slipped over Slade’s skin. He hated like hell all this delay, all this skulking around outside. He wanted to be inside and dealing with that bastard Cyrus and Patience for the last time. Slade moved until he could see into the room.
What he was looking at suddenly registered. Bile rose to a gorge at the back of his throat. He clutched at the cold stones of Cloister Point to keep from staggering to his knees. He couldn’t blink. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Nor could he save both Isabel and Hannah. He’d have to choose.
* * *
Bound to a chair in front of a narrow window and across the room from Isabel, Hannah tested the ropes that cut into her wrists. But even those slight movements brought her wincing pain from the lump on her head. That damned Cyrus. Who’d taught him how to hog-tie a critter? Thinking of critters, Hannah realized she no longer heard Esmerelda at her back. Had she perhaps gone home? Maybe she’d be seen coming from here and would raise suspicions about the goings-on here.
And what goings-on they were. Hannah again saw herself shooing Esmerelda once she entered Cloister Point through the tall window in Cyrus’s office. She’d no more than put both feet inside when the door opened and in walked her great-uncle. He’d been as startled as she was. And had proven to be a lot stronger than he looked. In the ensuing struggle, he’d hit her over the head with a paperweight. And that was the last she remembered until she’d come to and found herself hog-tied to this spindly old chair.
Hannah rocked her weight, feeling the chair’s loose joints give some. Interesting. Frowning from the throb in her head, she tipped her tongue over her split and swollen lip. The slightly metallic taste of blood slid down her throat when she swallowed. She looked up when Cyrus approached her. And figured she had nothing left to lose. “Kill me if you want. You won’t get away with it. Slade will come after you.”
Stopping in front of her, Cyrus tucked one of her Peacemakers into his waistband. And then slapped her face, snapping her head to the right. “I told you to shut up, Lawless bitch!”
Despite the shooting pain in her jaw, and the ringing in her ears, Hannah raised her head, sighting on Isabel when she heard the older woman’s gasp and her coldly threatening voice. “Leave her be, you monster. My grandson will tear you limb from limb when he gets here.”
Cyrus rounded on her. “I have every right to—”
“You have no rights. None,” Isabel raged, effectively shutting him up. She then turned on Patience, who sat facing her—and who aimed the other Peacemaker at her heart. “As for you, Patience Wilton-Humes, you either use that peashooter or put it away. Don’t think for a moment you can frighten me with a gun.” She calmly, with steady hands, lifted her teacup and saucer.
A smug smile cragged Patience’s face. “Oh? Try getting up, my dear. See how far you get. I think it would be especially fitting to kill you with one of Hannah’s own guns.” She looked over at her husband. “Cyrus, why are you letting her talk to me like that? What sort of husband are you?”
Hannah, still numb and blinking, nevertheless watched with a degree of satisfaction as Cyrus’s face reddened. He strode stiff-legged to the empty chair next to his wife and sat, leaning forward to glare a threat at Isabel. When he spoke, his voice was the whining snarl of a coward with a gun. “You keep a civil tongue in your head. And I have every right to deal with her”—he pointed at Hannah—“as I see fit. I caught her red-handed in my office, trying to rob me. My own brother’s child—breaking into my home.”
“I’ll not listen to this drivel.”
“You will listen!” Cyrus screeched, sending spittle flying. “Patience and I, out of the goodness of our hearts, intended to show you our evidence of your grandson’s guilt in all these murders, so you’d understand and could protect yourself from him. You could be next, Isabel—for your money. He’d do anything for money—even marry Hannah, a woman he hates, to keep her money.”
“No! You’re lying!” Hannah jerked about in the chair and tore at her bonds, wanting to scratch her great-uncle’s eyes out. And hoping to shake the chair apart so she could get to the peashooter in her pants pocket.
Cyrus sniggered evilly at Hannah. “You think I’m lying? Oh, it was him. Not us. We killed no one. Slade had Catherine killed, you know.”
Hannah exploded with a rage that nearly toppled her chair. A hoarse yell tore from her throat. “Don’t you ever speak my mother’s name.”
“Slade killed no one. That is absolutely preposterous,” came Isabel’s outraged cry.
“Is it? You know this—all without seeing our evidence? I find that very interesting. Hannah’s at risk, too. Slade’s using her until she no longer serves his purpose. And then he’ll rid himself of her, just as he has the others. Patience and I are next, you see. He had Hannah make her public accusations right here in our own home. As a result, Patience and I are cut off from all help, shut out of society. Ruined. No one will receive us.
“And we’re practically penniless—because of my grandmother’s misplaced loyalty to Catherine and to Slade. Again, Slade. Always Slade. We must rid ourselves of him—you and me and Patience. He’ll kill you for your money, too, Isabel. You must forgive the late hour, but we had to see you tonight—alone. To warn you.”
Isabel sat as still as an oil painting, her teacup suspended halfway between the saucer and her lips. “You’re quite mad, Cyrus. Insane.”
An oily grin exposed his crooked teeth. “Am I? Or am I just clever? Either way, that makes me quite dangerous, doesn’t it? So, if I were you, I’d sip my tea while we await the arrival of young Mr. Garrett.”
“No.” Isabel thumped her cup and saucer on the low table in front of her.
“Pick it up,” Patience warned. “Pick it up, or I’ll shoot your precious granddaughter-in-law.” She hefted the Peacemaker with both hands and waved it at Hannah.
Isabel glared at the white-haired woman and snatched up her cup and saucer. “What makes you think Slade will show up? He’s asleep. He has no idea that I’m even here, much less that Hannah might be. Because, following your own instructions in your note, I told no one of my destination. And my carriage still awaits me out front, so—”
Cyrus’s cackling cut off Isabel’s words. “Are you sure your carriage awaits you? What if I told you I sent that old fool driver of yours—Sedgewick, isn’t it?—back to Woodbridge Pond with a note to Slade? A note that said he’d best show up in thirty minutes or have your blood on his head. And as for Hannah? Well, she’s simply a bonus, a surprise, if you will.”
Even as Isabel’s eyes rounded and she gasped and threw her teacup and saucer onto the carpet, all Hannah could think was Slade’s walking into a trap. She worked furiously at her ropes, chafing and burning the skin over her wrists. Were the ropes loosening, or was it just her wishing it to be so?
When the tea spattered and stained the carpet, Cyrus and Patience jumped up, calling for Mrs. Wells, who popped in so quickly that she had to have been listening at the door. Hannah narrowed her eyes at the smirking snotty-old-ass as she cleaned up Isabel’s spill, poured her another cup, and exited the room as if she owned the place. Hannah’s gaze followed her until she closed the door behind her hefty self. Hateful hag. She’d get her comeuppance.
Hannah snapped her attention back to Cyrus as he again approached her. “Feeling a strong urge to hit a woman again, Uncle?”
“Not at the moment.” He fairly minced over to her. “Don’t think I don’t see you over here, trying to work the ropes loose. Let’s see if they’re still tight enough.” He went behind her and gave a savage yank to the big knot that secured her wrists.
Hannah grunted with the pain, but bit back a groan. Some primal instinct warned her not to show fear or weakness to this creature. He was of the sort to jump on her like a badger and tear her apart if she did. When he began yanking on the ropes around her booted ankles, Hannah looked to Isabel.
And frowned. Isabel now stared intently out the French doors behind Patience. Mindful of not alerting her captors, Hannah cut her gaze to the doors. Her angle was too sharp to see anything. It was probably just Esmerelda out there. Hannah looked back to Isabel, only to see her patting her hair … and poking her finger out, as if pointing at … Me? She’s pointing at me? Why? Why would Isabel gesture like that at Esmerelda? Well, the answer was—she wouldn’t. The dog would have no clue what she meant.
Then suddenly Hannah knew. Slade’s out there. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, against the crisscrossing ropes over her chest. When Cyrus stepped in front of her and tested the ropes binding her torso, Hannah smoothed her features into a poker face. But inside she crowed, Prepare to die, Cyrus Wilton-Humes, because my avenging angel has arrived.
When Cyrus knelt in front of her to yank on the ropes securing her booted feet to the chair, Hannah shot Isabel a look, trying to let her know she knew Slade was out there. That formidable lady dipped her eyelids in a slow blink of acknowledgment. Hope surged through Hannah. Because if Slade remained true to form, he’d come heavily armed and he’d have a host of men with him.
And when she and Isabel were freed? Well, that was up to Cyrus and Patience. If they were still alive after the next few moments. But Hannah knew what her preference was. Given one clean shot, and then another, she’d kill them both.
When Cyrus straightened up in front of Hannah, he glanced up, peered out the window behind her, and screeched in terror as he backed up.
Patience came to her feet, waving her Peacemaker wildly. “What is it, you fool? Are you frightened of a tied-up girl?”
“There’s a wild animal at our window!” He drew Hannah’s Peacemaker from his waistband.
Hannah frowned, thinking, Wolf? Slade? No—Esmerelda! “No!” Hannah’s cry tore from her at the same time Cyrus fired wildly, narrowly missing Hannah’s head, but shattering the glass behind her. A high-pitched animal yelp of pain signaled the beginning of the end. The bastard shot Esmerelda. Hannah pitched about in her chair, enough to actually move it, and screamed out in her anger. Cyrus shoved at her shoulder as he pushed past her to look out the broken window.
Using the momentum he’d given her, Hannah purposely pitched the chair to the floor. She hit the carpet with a painful thud, head and shoulder first, and heard a splintering sound. Of wood? Or of bone? A split second’s assessment of her body told her that, flipped over like a turtle though she may be, nothing was broken on her. A grunt of hallelujah escaped her as she struggled to further weaken the chair’s structure and just maybe free herself.
Fighting her own pitched battle, she belatedly became aware of the sounds of other struggles in the room. More shattering glass. Frightened screeching. The blunt impact of body against body. Grunts, cries, blows, thumps. And an opening door. On edge now, Hannah jerked her head back as best she could. To her mounting horror, she saw Isabel—that grande dame and Garrett matriarch—locked in a death grip with Patience as they both fought for Hannah’s gun. Into Hannah’s line of vision flew Mrs. Wells—at a dead run and with a large vase upraised over her head.
Hannah screamed out, “Isabel! Behind you!”
A gun roared, freezing Isabel and Patience in each other’s grip. Her own heart bleeding in fear, Hannah watched the two women stare at each other, waited the interminable, heart-stopping seconds with them for one of them to fall, mortally wounded. But neither one did.
Had the gun simply misfired in their struggle? Then, Hannah heard the thump. Isabel and Patience pushed away from each other and jerked around. Hannah wrestled her chair until she’d scooted herself around enough to see.
Mrs. Wells lay facedown on the floor. The vase rolled ineffectually across the carpet, stopping when it hit the sofa at Isabel’s back.
In the benumbed silence that followed, Hannah realized something else. The shot had come from behind her. Surely Cyrus hadn’t shot Mrs. Wells just before she crashed the vase down on Isabel’s head? The same thing apparently occurred to Isabel and Patience because they spun to the shattered window. Try as she might, Hannah couldn’t wrench her chair enough to see who’d shot Mrs. Wells, but what she heard made her want to cry.
“Drop the gun, Patience. One false move, and I’ll shoot Cyrus.”
Slade!
Hannah wilted in a crying slump of relief and joy. Her movement freed her tied hands from her chair’s broken slat. But freeing herself didn’t matter now, because Slade was here and everything would be fine. In another moment, his men would come bursting in and the nightmare that had begun out in No Man’s Land would finally end.
“Shoot Cyrus? You? I hardly think so. He’s bungled events so badly that he doesn’t deserve to live, much less share all the money with me. So, allow me to save you the effort, Mr. Garrett.”
Hannah’s head snapped up. Surely she hadn’t heard that right. Surely—
Cyrus screeched. “No, Patience! Don’t! I beg you—”
Another shot rang out.
“Jesus Christ! You shot him.”
Hannah froze at Slade’s incredulous words. She jerked mightily in reaction, forcing her legs out straight, an action that splintered the chair. Her mind registered that she was free of the chair but still tied up. She kicked and rolled over as best she could to face the window.
With one of her Peacemakers held loosely in one hand, Slade held on to a bloodied and slumping Cyrus with his other. Hannah’s great-uncle, his eyes open and staring at his wife, clutched at his chest as he flowed with his blood to the floor. Transfixed, Slade stared at the body.
Hannah’s mind registered another sound—the metallic click that signaled a round being chambered. Dear God, no. Time slowed. And everything happened at once. Wasting no breath or reaction time on calling out, Hannah tore at the ropes that bound her wrists. She kept her gaze riveted on Patience, saw the hateful woman swing her weapon to align it with Slade’s chest.
Hannah then saw Isabel react, saw her outstretched arms as she jumped at her enemy. Screaming in her head, Hannah wrenched her arms apart in a superhuman effort and came up with her hands free. From her position on the floor, realizing the crying gasps she heard were her own, she ripped her Smith & Wesson .32 out of her pocket, cocked, aimed, and fired—at the same time both of her Peacemakers, the one in Patience’s hands and the one in Slade’s hand, belched their fire and death.
In the unearthly quiet and calm that followed the loud reports, people fell to the floor. Patience. Isabel. Hannah flipped over. Slade. “No!” was the one wrenching scream that ripped her asunder. “No!”
Had she then lost everyone? Slade, Isabel, Esmerelda. Mama and Papa. Hannah repocketed her gun, sat up, and attacked the ropes around her ankles. Her fingernails were torn and bloody by the time she freed herself.
“No, Slade. No. Oh, please, God, no,” she whimpered as she scrambled in a crawl toward her husband’s prone, facedown body, mere feet from Cyrus. With Slade’s face turned toward her, she could see that his mouth slacked open. His eyes were half-closed, and his face was an ashen gray.
Intent on her husband, and crawling over Cyrus, paying him no more attention than if he’d been a log, Hannah sucked in a shocked breath. A hand grasped her ankle. Before she could do more than absorb the fact that it had to be Cyrus, she heard a gun being cocked behind her.
Her heart set up a pounding, even as her mouth dried and a hot nervy feeling snaked over her. She felt the weight of her weapon in her pocket. Timing would be everything. She inched her hand toward her pocket.
“Did you think I’d die that easily?” Cyrus’s voice sounded weak and bubbly. “They’re all dead now. Except you.” He stopped to wheeze and cough. “And when you are, the money will be all mine.”
While he was talking, Hannah slipped her hand into her pocket, closing her fingers around the pistol’s comforting steel form. Knowing he’d fire when he’d said his piece, Hannah ripped the pistol out of her pocket and jerked her leg. Wrenched off-target, Cyrus fired wide to Hannah’s left.
Hannah heard him cocking the Peacemaker again. She jerked over on her back and saw him, bloodied and near death’s door, but nevertheless using both hands to level the gun at her again. Vengeful hatred burst forth in Hannah as she raised her arm and took aim at Cyrus’s openmouthed face.
She looked deep into his eyes. She wanted to be sure he knew and understood. “The only thing that’s all yours, you murdering bastard, is a free trip to hell. This is for J. C. and Catherine Lawless.”
Cyrus snarled out one word. “Bitch.” And steadied his aim.
Cold to the core, Hannah squeezed the trigger, centering a bullet right in the middle of his forehead. Cyrus jerked backward and then toppled over. Dead. Hannah sat up, staring at the gun in her hand as if she’d never seen it before. Turning, she pitched it out the broken window. It was done. Vengeance was hers and her sisters’. It was a hollow feeling.
With her mind shrouded in a sanity-saving cloud, Hannah crawled to her husband. Stopping by his unmoving side, she crouched in a kneel and stared at him, her hands over her nose and mouth. She couldn’t touch him. Her arms refused her brain’s order to turn him over. Just as her legs refused the order to get up and go check on Isabel. She would, she promised, but right now she had to … had to see to her husband.
So, breathing raggedly, her heart thump-bumping painfully against her chest wall, she stared transfixed at the blood oozing from an unseen wound in his head. Her gaze lowered to the small pool of red that stained the carpet, that forced her horrified yet fixated attention to its deadly pattern. Watching Slade’s lifeblood flow from him, Hannah felt nothing, heard nothing, did nothing. Time, unnoticed by the living or the dead, ticked by.
She closed her eyes, hoping against hope that when she opened them, Slade would be alive. She opened her eyes. She stared at the unmoving body before her. With no conscious forethought, she slowly dragged out her shirt’s tail. Leaning over, suddenly galvanized, she scrubbed savagely at the blood on the carpet and pleaded with it. “No. Stop it. He’s not dead. He won’t be dead if you’ll just stop. Why won’t you stop?”
The cloud lifted. A wrenching sob tore its way up from the bottom of her soul, giving her the strength to lift his shoulders, turn him over, and slide her legs under him so she could cradle his head. She doubled herself over him, putting her cheek to his forehead, still so warm. Rocking him, holding him close, she cried, “No, no, no. I love you. Don’t leave me, Slade. I love you.”
With a dizzying suddenness, she jerked upright and stared at him, feeling a deep anger invade her heart. She thumped his unmoving shoulder. “Do you hear me, damn you? Don’t you die! Don’t you dare. I will never forgive you.” Realizing what she was doing, she sounded a cry of sorrowful despair and doubled herself over him again.
“Hannah? Is that you?”