Chapter Twenty

As word got out of Camilla James’s death, Taylor supposed, distant family and close friends would begin to arrive. But Camilla James had passed away less than an hour ago. So the only ones here now were those who’d been here earlier. From the upstairs bedroom window … her mother’s bedroom window … Taylor stood watching events below in the circular gravel driveway.

A little earlier, a boy of about fourteen and on horseback had cantered his mount up the driveway and ahead of a black buggy. Taylor had assumed this young man to be the same messenger who’d come to Grey’s this morning, only to be dispatched by him to the doctor’s. Sure enough, the man in the buggy had proven to be the doctor Grey had also sent Calvin after. Taylor recognized him as the same man who had tended Grey’s head wound.

Dr. Meade had rushed inside and had been escorted up to Camilla James’s room by Betsy. But there had been nothing he could do. He’d next wished to see Amanda and to administer a sedative to her, to calm her. But she wouldn’t allow it. And so, he’d gone downstairs to await the others who would soon be arriving.

And here they were. A fancy enclosed carriage was pulling up in front of the house. For a tense, hopeful second Taylor wondered if this was Grey returning. Then she saw Calvin behind the vehicle. He rode Red Sky bareback as had she. Disappointment wilted her posture. If Calvin was with this carriage, then it had to be that of … Sure enough, the door to the conveyance opened and out stepped two men. Her father and Grey’s younger brother, Franklin. So they were finally here.

You are too late, my father. Numbed to the point of being dispassionate, Taylor looked behind her … to the body reclining in the bed, even now being arranged by Betsy. The older woman was crying softly. Taylor wasn’t. She couldn’t. She had no more tears. Her emotions right now were a raw wound. To do anything at all was to rub salt into the exposed wound in her soul.

She pivoted until she once again looked out the window to watch the scene below. Along with the doctor, Henry the butler—This man is Betsy’s husband, Taylor repeated this detail to herself, as if she needed assurance that at least her rote memory survived—had come outside and was now speaking to the men. With the window closed, Taylor couldn’t hear them. But she didn’t have to hear to know what was being said. The doctor was telling the men that Camilla James had died. She knew this because her father suddenly buckled. Taylor tensed, stiffening her knees as she watched Henry and Franklin make a grab for him.

Finally, the men had him buttressed between them, an arm each around her father’s back and a grip on each of his arms. Just then, Charles James threw his head back, his expression a distorted mask of abject sorrow. His mouth was open. Perhaps, Taylor thought, he was crying out as she had done earlier. The men moved forward and then disappeared into the house.

Taylor’s first thought was that she needed to leave the room. She knew her father would want to be alone with Camilla James. But beyond that realization, her motivation was perhaps selfish. Right now, she simply did not want to see her father. Yes, he was the only one left now with the answers to the questions she had. Yes, he was the only one who could verify everything Aunt Camil—no, her mother—had told her. But right now, Taylor did not want to see him. She had no idea what to say to him.

So he could tell her the truth. So what? What need had she of his words to verify a truth? The truth needed no help. It just and simply was. Lies needed elaborate stories, she knew. And they had been told … among them, that she was dead and that Amanda was dead. Other lies were that she was Cherokee and that Tennie Nell Christie was her mother. Lies. All of them. But the truth? No, it needed nothing and no one.

Neither did she. I don’t? Then why am I standing here waiting for Grey? She was, and she knew it. A grimace of misery clutched at Taylor’s features, tried to break through her control. She tensed, fisting her hands. No, she would not think further about Grey. To do so might melt the ice she had encased her heart in. Right now she did not want to speak. She did not want to feel. And she did not want to be touched. She didn’t even want to breathe or to live.

But stubbornly her heart insisted on beating and her lungs continued to draw air in and push it out, almost independent of her own will. It was the oddest thing, life. One moment you possessed it … she turned slowly again to stare at Camilla James … and the next, you didn’t. One moment you were Cherokee, one of The People—and the next, you weren’t. You were white, a thing you had hated all your life. And you weren’t alone in the world. You had a half-sister, a father, and a man you loved … and one mother who was dead and another mother so many miles away who lived, yet wasn’t your mother at all. But had loved you as only one could.

Tennie Nell Christie. She had sent Taylor here to learn these truths. And she had. But now she wanted to go home. The Cherokee Nation. No matter the truth of her white blood, in her heart she was Cherokee. And she wanted to go home. Now. Today. It was quiet there. Peaceful. She loved her Cherokee mother … and so she would go. She would leave before Grey got here. Taylor frowned, not able to recall at first why he’d left and where he’d been going. Then it came to her. His mother’s. He was going to his mother’s to stop Stanley James and to find out if she had a hand in killing Taylor’s mother.

Taylor chuckled, a self-deprecating sound. So many mothers.

“Are you OK, Miss James?”

Taylor jumped and turned around. There stood Betsy. Taylor had forgotten the woman was in the room. Apparently she had finished her ministrations to Camilla James and was now standing at the foot of the bed. “I’m fine,” Taylor said abruptly. “My father and Mr. Franklin Talbott have arrived.”

Looking weary and sad, her eyes swollen, her cheeks splotchy with color, the older woman nodded. “I’ll leave you now with your aunt for a few minutes of privacy. I’m so sorry for your loss, miss.”

“Thank you,” Taylor managed to say, seeing no need to correct the housekeeper. What difference did it make if Betsy continued to believe Camilla James had been Taylor’s aunt? In silence, she waited while Betsy left the room, gently closing the door behind her. Taylor didn’t intend to be here when her father came upstairs, as he no doubt was doing at this very moment. That being so, Taylor knew she needed to tell her mother good-bye now.

Slowly, stiffly, she walked over to the bed and looked down at her … mother. Betsy had done wonders. Camilla James was again beautiful. She could be asleep, nothing more. Taylor fought back a sudden sob that tore at her heart. She gritted her teeth and stared through the blurring haze of her sorrow. She reached out and tenderly stroked her mother’s hair … so long and soft and black like hers. From this woman she had got her hair, the shape of her face, her nose and mouth. This woman. Not Tennie Nell Christie. But this woman. Taylor touched Camilla’s cheek. A tear splashed onto the woman’s forehead. Without acknowledging to herself that it was her own tear, Taylor gently rubbed it away, feeling the cool, soft skin under her fingers.

“I love you, Mother,” she whispered. “And I forgive you. I will always honor your memory. And I will try to bring honor to this life you have given me.” Then she bent over and softly kissed her mother’s cheek.

*   *   *

In the next moment—and wishing fervently she had found the courage to say those things to Camilla while she yet lived—Taylor straightened up and turned away. She would now leave the room and avoid her father. But she was too late. The door opened. Her father stood there, alone, his hand on the doorknob. Taylor’s gaze locked with his. She didn’t speak. Neither did he. But in his blue eyes—the same color as hers—was the truth and his recognition that Taylor now knew it, too. She now knew that this man, whose grief made him appear old, and the dead woman in the bed were her true parents. And they had left her behind, at the end of the war, in the Cherokee Nation with a woman whom she dearly loved but who was no relation to her. Cowards.

Bitterness welled up inside Taylor. She looked from him to her mother. She then took a deep, ragged breath and turned again to her father. “I’ll leave you alone with her.”

What she didn’t say was that, to her, this was how he and Camilla had evidently always wanted it … that they would be together without her.

Shaking his head, Charles held a hand out to her in supplication. “Please don’t leave, Taylor. Stay. I want you to stay.”

Silence again ruled the distance between them. A functioning part of Taylor’s brain registered that she was hearing knocking on a door down the hall and the sound of Franklin Talbott’s voice as he called out beseechingly to Amanda to please open the door and let him and the doctor in.

Again her father spoke. “Please. Stay. I … I don’t have any right to say this, Taylor … but I need you.”

Taylor’s chin came up. She remained dry-eyed and hated herself for wanting to believe his words. In his presence she felt young, like a small girl who was uncertain of herself but more uncertain of being loved. Resentment flooded Taylor. He expected her to act the obedient child. Well, she was a woman now and did not behave as a young one would. Denying him his comfort, refusing to absolve him, Taylor looked down and away, purposely unresponsive.

After long moments of sustained silence, though, Taylor dared another glance her father’s way. He no longer stood in the doorway. She looked around and found him beside the bed. His prostrating grief was too much for Taylor to bear and to witness. Now was her chance to leave. But instead, and not asking herself why, she whipped around, returning to the window where she’d stood before. She looked out on the peace and beauty of the day … and watched and waited. From behind her, not one sound issued forth. Her father’s grief must be too deep, was Taylor’s conclusion. For the briefest of seconds, she allowed herself to care and to hurt for him.

Retreating back into her hardened shell, Taylor allowed time simply to pass. To her, the seconds, the minutes, seemed to drag by as slowly as if they had been dipped in molasses and could not pull free of its sticky, syrupy hold. Her back and legs ached from remaining so still. Her eyes felt dry and scratchy, yet her vision remained clear and sharp. She watched the street and marked the passing carriages, her breath catching, then disappointment eating at her, each time one slowed down in front of the open gate to the James property but didn’t turn in. Each time she would think, Is that Grey? Is he back? What happened at his mother’s? Is she alive? Is Uncle Stanley? Why would he want to kill Grey’s mother? Weren’t they in on this poisoning together? So many questions and no one to answer them for her.

But those weren’t the only reasons she wished and prayed for the first sight of Grey’s carriage. She admitted it now. She admitted that she needed to know, with every breath she took, every beat of her heart, that he was unharmed, that he lived. If he didn’t, then there was no need for her to do so. But how could she find out? What could she do? As if it had been waiting in the wings of her mind, waiting only for her to ask, the answer burst brightly into her consciousness. She could go after Grey herself.

Despite her father’s wish to the contrary, she did not have to remain here. Meaning, Calvin was back with her horse. Of course. She could get Red Sky from Calvin, have him tell her where Grey’s mother lived, and then ride there to help him. This was what she would do. But before she could turn away from the window, a black brougham did slow down at the gate and turn in. Rapidly the horses came, their hooves and the carriage’s wheels churning up a cloud of dust and gravel on the long driveway. In less than a minute, the conveyance would be stopping out front.

Taylor tensed, frowning, her hands fisting. No. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t be seeing what she was seeing. Something was wrong. Her wondering gaze fell on Edward, the driver. He was using the whip. But that wasn’t what concerned her. She shook her head, tried to clear her vision … but it persisted. A great dark and hovering bird of prey seemed to engulf the carriage, seemed to devour it … to become it. The omen. Grey. It took him, not me. Taylor’s nails dug into her palms. “No!” she cried out, jerking around, already running for the bedroom’s closed door.

From beside the bed, her father looked up, standing now. “Taylor! What is it?”

She didn’t stop; she was at the door, wrenching it open. “Grey. His carriage. He has returned. And something is wrong.”

“Oh, dear God, no. What else can happen today? Wait for me, Taylor.”

“I cannot.” She was out in the hall, running, her booted steps thudding heavily with each charging step she took. Grey, oh God, Grey, oh God, Grey, oh God. The litany repeated itself … over and over.

A door to her right jerked open. Startled, Taylor glanced its way. Franklin stood there. Amanda was at his shoulder, wide-eyed and wild-eyed. Behind her, in the room, was the doctor. But it was Amanda who called out. “Taylor, what’s wrong? Why are you running?”

“It is Grey. Something is wrong with Grey.” She heard their shocked protestations but had already flown by them and was at the stairs. “His carriage. It has returned!” she called out over her shoulder, aware that Amanda and Franklin were behind her now, as were probably her father and, she hoped, the doctor. Taylor attacked the stairs, all but falling down them in her haste.

Downstairs now, with no servants in sight—no doubt Henry the butler had gone to console his wife, Betsy—Taylor jerked open the door and ran outside, startling Calvin and Red Sky. Off to one side, in front of her father’s carriage and talking with his driver, Calvin called out, “Whoa, Miss James! What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer, didn’t have the breath or the inclination for it. She’d outpaced the others following her; that much she knew. Perhaps they’d stopped chasing her; perhaps sensibly they waited where they were, waited for the brougham to come to a stop in front of them at the front door, as it must. Or … as it would have, had not Taylor been running down the very middle of the driveway. Her footsteps crunched through the gravel, but still she ran, her lungs screaming for breath, her mind numb.

Obviously seeing her, Edward, the driver, yelled, “Whoa!” to the horses and sawed back on the reins and the hand brake. The lathered animals skidded and pawed. Dust and gravel filled the air in a great billowing cloud. The carriage itself, with its wheels locked, skidded sideways and shimmied to a halt … not fifteen feet away from where Taylor had herself finally been able to stop. She bent over, put her hands to her knees, and gasped for breath.

Just then someone from behind her grabbed her, startling a cry out of Taylor. She jerked upright and around. It was Amanda, red-faced with the heat and from running. Behind Amanda, at a distance, Taylor could see her father and Franklin and the doctor standing by his carriage with Calvin and Red Sky.

Amanda, her sister, clutched at Taylor’s shirtsleeve. “I told them … I would see to you.” Like Taylor, she gasped for breath. “I think they … were afraid you might … shoot them. My God, Taylor, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I do not know. Grey,” Taylor got out, pointing to the brougham.

Just then, Edward, the driver, stood up, startling Taylor and Amanda, who clutched at Taylor as the man frantically waved his arms. Was he trying to warn them away? His words confirmed he was. “Get back, girls. Go away. Don’t come any closer. It’s not—”

A shot rang out. Amanda screamed; Taylor jumped. Edward grunted in pain, clutched at his shoulder, and toppled off his perch, falling hard, bleeding, to the ground. Wide-eyed, shocked, her mouth open, Taylor—still held in Amanda’s grip—could do no more than look to the brougham. What she saw there made her wonder if she was addled. It was Stanley James—not Grey—balanced in the opened door, one hand gripping the carriage frame, a smoking gun fisted in his other.

Where’s Grey? was all Taylor could think in her benumbed state.

Amanda recovered first, letting go of Taylor and charging toward her father. “What are you doing? Why did you shoot him?” Her voice was a crying scream of anguish and confusion. “Father, what is going on?”

“Get back, Amanda,” Stanley James said, his voice level. With his gun, he waved his daughter away. “It’s not you I want. You’re in my way. Move.”

“I won’t.” Amanda stopped where she was … directly in the line of fire between her father and Taylor. “You’ll have to shoot me first.” Making of herself a bigger target, Amanda held her arms out to either side and at shoulder height.

“I’m not going to shoot you, Amanda. I love you. You are my daughter. It’s her I want. Taylor. She’s a sin I can’t forgive. And this is her judgment day.”

“You’re not God,” Amanda said quietly and firmly. “Taylor’s done nothing wrong. It’s you who’s wrong, Father. You can’t do this.”

“I can. And I will. Now move. It’s the last time I’m going to tell you.”

Taylor had no intention of allowing Amanda’s bravery to get her killed. Nor did she doubt that Stanley James meant what he’d just implied—he would shoot Amanda if she didn’t move. The man’s hatred of her, Taylor knew, was stronger than his love for his daughter.

So while they’d talked, while Amanda tried to reason with her father, Taylor had edged her gun out of its holster, held it at her side, and was even now taking one cautious step after another toward Amanda’s slender, vulnerable back. Taylor prayed her father and the others stayed where they were. She wanted nothing and no one to force Stanley’s hand, because she was almost upon Amanda. Taylor herself made no sudden move to draw her uncle’s attention to herself … just slowly and steadily advanced. She watched everything at once. Amanda. Her uncle. The horses. She heard everything. Her own rasping breath. Amanda and her father’s argument. Edward’s groans.

The sweat of fear and pure calculation ran down Taylor’s spine. The one thing she could not do right now was wonder what this man full of hate might have already done to Grey. But he had done something. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here in Grey’s brougham, which he’d obviously taken at gunpoint. Taylor knew that if she dwelled on this, she would collapse into a ball and never stop crying. So she forced onto her very being the cold-blooded steeliness of the patient, stalking killer that her reputation said she was.

Taylor drew even with Amanda, standing on her right side as she gently put a hand on her sister’s arm. Quietly, never looking her way, never taking her gaze off her uncle, who now watched Taylor much like a serpent would, Taylor said, “Get behind me, Amanda. Right now. Don’t argue. Drop down into a ball and cover your head with your arms. I don’t want you to see this.”

“No, Taylor,” Amanda sobbed. “I can’t allow you to do this.”

Taylor licked at her lips, tasting the salt of her sweat. “Do it, Amanda.”

“Do like she says, Amanda,” Stanley said, sparing only the briefest of glances for his daughter before turning an evil grin on Taylor, a grin that split his wide, cruel mouth in two like a gashing knife wound in flesh. “You don’t have any part in this.”

“I do,” Amanda protested, straining against Taylor’s tightened grip on her arm. “Why are you doing this? Stop it. Mama’s dead. Nothing can bring her back. You poisoned her.”

“I did not!” Stanley James screamed, his face red and contorted. “Augusta did. I never—it was all Augusta. She did it. I never loved her. Only your mother. Augusta kept trying to—she pleaded with me, begged me to leave your mother. She threatened to tell your mother lies, that we were lovers. We weren’t. I told her I didn’t love her, to leave us be. But she wouldn’t. She befriended your mother. She—”

“Ohmigod. Franklin. My marriage to him.” Amanda stared in horror at her father.

Taylor watched her sister—yet thought of herself … in love with the other Talbott son, Greyson. What a terrible trickster was Fate. Terrible. It had put them all here, in this place, to face the sins of the mothers.

“That’s right. You and Franklin.” Stanley continued his ranting. “Augusta hated the idea of you—Camilla’s daughter—loving her son. She wanted me only and not to be a part of our family through you. Then Greyson fell for Taylor, another of Camilla’s daughters.” Stanley’s expression crumpled. “It pushed her over the edge. And she … killed your mother. Because of her.” His voice a ragged roar, he pointed his gun at Taylor.

Taylor stiffened her knees. Her gun felt slippery in her hand. But she didn’t dare try to wipe her hand on her britches. Fractions of seconds now were the difference between life and death.

“No!” Amanda cried out. “Not because of Taylor, Father. You have to believe me. Just put the gun down. Please. And come inside with me and see Mother.”

“No.” Stanley tightened his grip on the gun in his fist and descended from the carriage. He stood firmly on the ground, staring and glaring to a point somewhere behind Taylor and Amanda. “That son of a bitch is here. He betrayed me. My own brother betrayed me with your mother. She loved him, you know. Not me. Him.” Stanley focused again on Amanda … and then Taylor. “Your mother,” he said pointedly, “betrayed me with my own brother.”

Her chin raised, Taylor said nothing. She didn’t dare breathe or blink. As quietly as she could, with her gun hand still hanging at her side, but with the deft touch of long practice, she cocked back the hammer on her gun … and waited.

“Father,” Amanda said quickly in what Taylor recognized as a desperate attempt to divert Stanley’s attention away from her, “what have you done to Augusta Talbott?”

That got a grunt of distaste out of Stanley James. “Not enough, I tell you. I used my pistol on the bitch and told her I’d never loved her, that she was trash. And crazy. Augusta has always been crazy. I knew that. I left Boston to get away from her, but she followed me here. With her husband and sons, she followed me here and made my life a living torture. But I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you mean. I wanted to, but that son of hers arrived before I could.”

Taylor’s breath caught. Amanda then asked the question Taylor dreaded: “What have you done to Grey, Father? What?”

Stanley shook his head. “Nothing.”

Taylor opened her mouth, filling her lungs with air and relief. She refused to heed the doubt that asked her if she could believe this man, if she could trust him to be telling the truth. She chose to do so. She had to.

“Then where is he, Father? Why are you in his carriage? You took your horse when you left earlier.”

Stanley shrugged, looking impatient and agitated now. “I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care. Quit talking to me, Amanda; you’re confusing me.” He distractedly ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight from one leg to the other as he eyed Taylor … and her drawn gun.

Here we go, Taylor told herself. Her eyes narrowed with her certainty. Calm suffused her inside. Clarity came to her brain. Time slowed.

“Move, Amanda. I have unfinished business with Taylor.”

His words didn’t surprise Taylor. She’d expected them. But they did shock Amanda. “No. I told you I wouldn’t. Taylor is my sister.” She threw the word at her father—the wrong word.

Stanley grimaced, crouching into an ugly stance and raising his gun.

Just as he did, at a distance behind him movement caught Taylor’s eye. Without having to look away from Stanley, she saw a huge roan with a big rider crouched low over his neck thunder around the gate and turn in to the James property. It was Grey. He was riding hard, urging the lathered horse to even greater speed. But he would be too late. It made Taylor sad. She said her silent good-bye to him.

As if in slow motion, Taylor watched Stanley James level his gun and cock back the hammer. She heard Amanda scream, “No!” as Taylor yanked her sister to her knees and raised her own gun, her arm stiffened with deadly accuracy as she centered her weapon on her uncle’s heart … and fired.

But he’d jerked to one side and fired in the same instant as Taylor had. With satisfaction Taylor saw him twitch and grimace. Her bullet had caught him in the left arm, only grazing him. But his bullet had caught Taylor squarely in the shoulder. A ripping, searing pain almost took her to her knees. She staggered but kept her feet … saw that Grey was close enough now that she could make out his features frozen in horror and disbelief … and fired again at her uncle. This bullet took him high in the chest. He cried out, his gun firing almost reflexively. Again pain tore through Taylor, as the bullet ripped through the flesh in her thigh.

She went to her knees, desperately fighting the weakness that threatened to cause her to black out. Amanda clutched at her, screaming, crying. With a sudden burst of renewed strength, Taylor pushed Amanda down and threw herself on top of her. “Stay down, goddammit,” she cursed. And Amanda did.

Quickly Taylor rose, firing again—just as Grey neared them and fought to bring the big roan to a stop, all the while fumbling in his effort to get his gun from its holster under his coat. He screamed out her name as Taylor watched her bullet hit her uncle again in the chest—this time almost in the center of it. Close to his heart. It wouldn’t be long now, if only she could hold on. Breathing laboriously, feeling soaked with her own blood, her vision blurring, Taylor watched Stanley stare in confusion at her, as if he had no idea what had just happened. A pool of blood now stained the front of his shirt and vest.

“Why won’t you die?” were her uncle’s last words as he fired once again at Taylor, hit her, and then jumped and jerked and twisted as Grey, cursing and yelling, emptied his gun into Stanley James’s already dead body.

The man fell to the ground, face-first. It was over.

Relieved, suddenly numb and cold, with the world around her buzzing, Taylor slumped over Amanda, who was screaming and crying under her. Stanley’s third bullet had taken Taylor in her side. It was bad. Very bad.

Then hands were grabbing her, turning her over. People were all around her, all of them talking and yelling. Some were crying. It was like a nightmare. Every one of them was calling her name. They wouldn’t leave her alone. Taylor tried to tell them to leave her be, but she couldn’t seem to talk. Something was very wrong with her. She wanted Grey. Only Grey. Where was he? Above her—she realized she must be lying on the ground because she could see the sky above her—was her father’s worried face. And Franklin’s—he was holding a sobbing Amanda. And there was Calvin. And even Edward, the wounded driver, was staring down at her. But where was Grey?

Then someone brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her temple. Taylor turned her head. It took great effort.… She was growing steadily weaker and colder. But she did it. She looked up into Grey’s face. He was sad about something … and crying. Or trying not to. Taylor tried to raise her hand but for some reason couldn’t. She wanted to stroke his cheek.

Through the fog of a growing grayness around her, one that beckoned her away, she suddenly heard Grey’s voice loud and clear. “Oh, God, Taylor. Oh, God, honey. Don’t give up. Don’t. You’ll be OK. The doctor’s right here. Just fight, baby. Fight. I love you. Please fight.”

When the doctor tried to open Taylor’s shirt, she pushed his hands away, telling him no. She then licked at her lips and stared up at Grey. “I can’t fight, Grey,” she rasped out. “It hurts too much.”

“It can’t hurt half as much as you leaving me. Let the doctor see to you, Taylor. Please. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you, and you have to live for me. You have to.”

Taylor smiled. “I can’t, Grey. I want to live. But I can’t. Please don’t hate me. I love you.” She then looked to the ring of faces above her … realizing suddenly that they weren’t all standing above her but were all on their knees and surrounding her. Her father stroked her forehead. Her sister held her hand. They were both sobbing quietly. “I love you, Father. And Amanda, my sister. Just know that I love you both.”

Taylor felt herself slipping. She focused again on Grey. This time managing to raise a hand—it was covered in blood, her blood—to his cheek. He caught her hand there, held it, kissed her palm. Her touch left him streaked with blood. “I came here, Grey, to find you. And I did. You must go to the Nation and tell my Cherokee mother that I love her. Will you do that for me?”

Grey nodded. His tears caused wide streaks through the blood on his cheeks. “I will. But you’re going with me. Do you hear me, Taylor? You’re going with me.”

“Yes,” she said feebly, the last of her strength ebbing from her. “I will go with you. I wish to be buried there, Grey.” Then she clutched at him, her body arching. “I love you, Grey.”

She heard his answering words—“Oh, God, Taylor, I love you; don’t leave me, please”—and then … all was darkness.

Her soul was adrift. The great hovering evil darkness had won … just as Bentley, the man-bird and spirit guide, had feared. Just as Rube, the Cherokee guard in Tahlequah, had predicted.

The day will come for you, Taylor. And you will have to make a choice. And that choice will be marked with the blood of those you love the most. Your life or theirs. The decision will be on your head and in your heart. This thing I have seen, and it will come to pass.