The bullet slammed into Matthias’s leg, knocking it out from under him. He threw his hands out in front to break his fall, landing hard on the rocky ground.
Opal screamed, and pain shot through his wrists. Then a sharper stab struck his calf. The bullet.
He pushed up to a sitting position, then gripped his leg where it felt like flames licked at his skin. He had to force his focus back on the man holding the rifle. What would the lunatic do next?
Lefton looked a little pale, but he still had that blasted gun pointed at them. “Now lay flat on your belly.” He waved the gun toward Opal. “That gal better stay put, right there against the tree.”
Matthias obeyed the command, shifting around so his chest rested on the ground. The fire in his leg felt like a crimson poker iron scalding through his skin. It was easier to drag the leg than lift it, but he made sure he lay with his head close to Opal and his face turned to watch Lefton’s next move.
The brute stepped forward, pulling a rope from over his shoulder. “You move, Björk, an’ I’ll shoot him again.”
The thought of another pain like the one scalding his leg was enough to stop him from even breathing. Yet this might be his only chance to get the jump on Lefton.
The man grunted as he reached down to grab Matthias’s wrists.
Matthias flipped over, preparing to kick up at the oaf and knock him backward.
But Lefton’s giant paws had such a grip on his arms, those powerful hands built up from years of pounding an anvil held him against the ground like a buffalo pinning a frog.
Then Lefton’s massive boot slammed into his face, pressing his jaw into the ground. The man was definitely as big as a buffalo. And from his superior position, he could twist Matthias into an angle that disarmed all his power.
“I said don’t move.” Lefton kept his boot squarely positioned on Matthias’s face as he made quick work of tying his hands. He muttered under his breath the whole time, but nothing coherent.
“There.”
Finally, the boot lifted, and Matthias eased out the breath he’d been holding. His jaw ached now, too, but nothing compared to his leg.
The man grabbed his bound wrists and pulled upward, dragging Matthias back and sending that scalding poker iron through the joints where his arms met his shoulders. If he ever got loose from these ropes, he’d be tempted to kill the man.
Lefton pulled him backward, and Matthias staggered to his feet. He couldn’t help a glance at Opal, who looked as though she might jump up and bolt forward to help him. Her arms were still tied behind her back, but he’d cut off the last of rope that tied her to the tree.
Run away. Now. He tried to tell her with his eyes, but the way Lefton half-dragged him, he couldn’t be sure she saw anything besides his panic and pain. ’Twas time to make a strategy, or they’d both suffer a miserable death.
He had no doubt about Lefton’s intentions now.
Opal had to make a plan.
Lefton finished tying Matthias to a tree at the edge of the clearing, then picked up the rifle and knife he’d thrown that direction. With both in hand, the man straightened and turned his focus to her, that crooked grin on his face.
Why was he doing this? The brute must be deranged. But he seemed to know exactly what he planned to do with them both, as though he’d plotted and schemed for months.
He kept his hungry gaze on her the entire time as he veered to the north end of the clearing where he’d first appeared from the woods, deposited Matthias’s gun and knife on the ground, then picked up his own rifle and headed toward her.
’Twas hard not to cower against the tree as he advanced, his bulky form almost large enough to block out the sunlight as he towered above her.
“Now, let’s see what’s next for you, little lady.” He lowered himself beside her, the stench of his presence filling her senses and churning bile in her midsection. “First off, we need to fix these ropes again.”
He took up the cord and fiddled with it for several moments. Maybe if she could get him talking about whatever had happened five years ago, she might find a clue for how they could get away from him.
“Mr. Lefton, you mentioned something terrible that happened on the prairie five years ago. Did you lose someone special? Maybe your wife?” She held her breath as she watched for his face to mottle red again, the way it seemed to do when he was angry. This line of questioning could work, or, if she raised too many bad memories, it could make things infinitely worse.
He seemed to ignore her, as he focused on the rope. He was tying knots in it, probably refastening the pieces Matthias cut through.
She slid a glance at him across the clearing. Her chest ached at the pain he must be in. Forsooth, he’d been shot. ’Twas a wonder he could sit upright. He wasn’t looking at her, but seemed to be staring at the ground around him. Perhaps, that was his way of dealing with his pain.
Forcing her gaze back to Lefton, she tried to study his face without making it obvious. Would he answer or did she need to find another way to coax him into talking?
But as she tried to formulate another question, he spoke, his voice low and bitter. “He killed my wife.”
The words were so unexpected, ’twas a second before they sank fully into her thoughts. Matthias? He was such a good man, it was hard to imagine him killing anyone, especially a woman. But she’d best be careful how she questioned this madman.
Thankfully, he spoke again without her prompting. “We were on our way west, traveling with four other wagons. Thought there would be safety in numbers.” That last comment seemed to drip with bitter regret, but he kept on.
“Night had just settled in and we was about to eat. I took the horses to water at the creek while Abigail finished cookin’. A patch of trees kept the whole thing hidden from me until I heard her scream. I came runnin’. Saw a swarm of half-naked redskins slippin’ around like bees in a honey hive. One of ‘em saw me comin’ and sent a lead ball into my leg. Knocked me down, an’ I hit my head on a rock.”
He fingered the fresh-cut end of a rope. “Next thing I knew, I was wakin’ up to more screams. All the Indians were still runnin’ around, carryin’ torches and settin’ fire to things. I saw him then, your sweetheart.” He shot her a look, his eyes so full of hatred, she had to clamp her jaw to keep from pulling back.
“He had my wife. Had her trussed up tight, and he was wavin’ a fiery stick in her face. First, he lit her hair on fire, then he started her skirts flamin’.” The man’s voice graveled as the pain leached through it. “I tried to get to her. Tried to stop him. But my leg was busted up pretty bad, and I had to crawl. I threw rocks at him. Screamed at him. Screamed for the Almighty to save her. Then I watched the flames eat up her skin and burn her lifeless body.”
A hardness had slipped over his voice. No doubt that was the only way he could bring himself to speak the memory, by turning the pain into anger. But this anger had consumed him, turning him into an ogre that would likely have horrified his poor wife.
Lefton seemed to pull himself from the memories with a jerk as he reached to secure the rope around her again.
But there was one more thing she had to get clear in her mind. “Mr. Lefton. I’m so sorry for all you and your Abigail suffered. No one should meet that kind of death, nor be forced to watch one they love endure it. But how do you know it was Matthias there with the Indians?”
He harrumphed as he jerked the rope tight around her middle, pinning her arms to her side again. “He was dressed up like a savage, but that blond hair stood out like a flag. The moment I saw him come in my livery a few years back, I knew ’twas him again.”
“So his hair was what made you recognize him?” She tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice.
“That and the look of him. After watchin’ him kill my wife, I’d know the lucifer anywhere.”
She’d pressed far enough, so she pinched her mouth shut. But honestly, he was about to kill them both on the fact that Matthias shared the same hair color with a murderer? That and a vague recognition that could very possibly be wrong, given how distraught he must have been when the horrible massacre happened. Not to mention the pain from his leg and the befuddlement he must have experienced from hitting his head so hard.
And now, she and Matthias were to die because of this man’s misguided anger. Maybe he just needed someone to blame. She could understand that. But it didn’t mean she wanted to become his scapegoat.
He jerked the final knot tight and raised to his feet. “Stay put.” He turned and retreated to the edge of the trees where he rummaged through a pack.
She took the opportunity to look at Matthias. He still sat by that tree, watching her with a look in his eyes that clogged a lump of emotion in her throat. His gaze bespoke encouragement. Love. Commitment.
Such a good man. Even with his own pain, he was reaching out to strengthen her with the only means allowed him—his gaze.
Lefton returned, carrying a stick about the length of his forearm, it’s end wrapped in a cloth. His face wore a look of firm resolve as he knelt beside her again, then he took a small box out of his pocket.
He opened it and pulled out a match. Panic rose up in her throat, but she breathed hard to keep it at bay.
Holding the tiny piece up between them, she saw the first spark of remorse cross his face. “I warned you, Miss Opal, and now you see he’s nothin’ but an Indian-lovin’ murderer.”
If she’d had her hands free, she would have shaken the man. One last chance to work some sense into him before he became the murderer he accused Matthias of being.
He worked the match against the striker, and Opal took in long, slow breaths to keep herself from focusing on his intent. If she let herself imagine what it would feel like to burn to death, she’d lose any ability to think through a plan of escape.
She wanted to look to Matthias again, draw more strength from him, but she didn’t want him to see the fear her own eyes surely reflected.
So as the tiny match flamed to life, then lit the cloth binding the torch…she prayed.
Matthias worked at the rope binding him to the tree, sawing at its thickness with his tiny boot knife. He had to twist his arms at such a harsh angle, it was hard to get the leverage he needed. But Opal’s life depended on him getting loose, so he bent further and pushed the knife blade harder into the rope.
’Twas a miracle this knife had landed in a patch of grass where it was hidden from Lefton’s view. Only something God could have orchestrated.
A spark of flame captured his attention where Lefton knelt beside Opal. His blood ran cold as the man held a long match against the cloth of his torch. His story had been a tragic one, but it didn’t give him the right to torture and kill another human being. Especially not Opal.
He sawed harder at the rope, and could feel the threads of the cord breaking with each swipe. God, please let me be in time. Help her. If you don’t use me, save Opal a different way.
The torch in Lefton’s hand flared to life, flaming as though it had been dipped in kerosene. He moved it close to Opal’s face
Matthias sawed harder, ignoring the cramps in his arms and wrist. Ignoring the burn in his leg. None of it would matter until he had Opal free of that revenge-hungry blackguard.
Even across the distance, he heard her gasp, drawing his focus again. Flames licked at the long golden braid hanging over her shoulder. His stomach balled in an acrid knot, and bile rose up his throat as he doubled his efforts at the rope. God, help her.
A whimper drifted to him, but he didn’t let himself look. The moment he cut through this last rope, he would dive toward his rifle and knife where Lefton had placed them about a dozen feet away.
Opal screamed, igniting a frenzy inside him.
The rope broke under his knife blade, and he surged to his feet. His wounded leg tried to crumble, but he was prepared for that and kept his weight mostly on his good leg.
Lefton bellowed as Matthias leapt toward his weapons. He fit his hands in the familiar position on the rifle and spun on his knees to face the fiend.
But Lefton had already raised his own gun and sighted down the trigger.
In that instant, everything seemed to slow. He saw with a sudden clarity that he was about to die. Into Your hands, Lord. But please don’t let Opal suffer.
A gunshot blasted.
Opal screamed.
Matthias pressed his eyes shut as the acrid smell of powder filled his mouth and nose. He waited for the force of the bullet to slam into him.