BY THE TIME MILES AND I RETURNED TO THE RANCH, IT was late afternoon. Patricia was waiting on the front porch to speak to me. I found myself thinking her eyes had never looked bluer. She caught my elbow as I came near, snuggling against me as she was prone to do, and I squeezed her close.
“What is it?”
“I’ve something to tell you. Might we walk, just us two?”
“Of course.” I linked our arms. I wore Miles’s dark jacket and Patricia was bundled in her shawl, though it wasn’t especially chilly; the vivid sun had warmed the day. We walked out beyond the house, toward the mountains, in companionable silence. It wasn’t until we were well past the yard that Patricia stopped our forward progress, turning to face me and catching my hands. I studied this woman I loved dearly, who was as much a sister to me as any I could imagine. She squeezed my fingers as she whispered, “Cole has asked me to be his wife.”
A shifting in the gut, a change in the wind, a distant, wailing cry –
“Is that what you want?” It was growing stronger, the sensation of hurtling out of control, of events about to sweep us away from solid footing and into the fray. How was it I already knew there wasn’t a goddamn thing we could do to prevent it?
No, I thought. Please, no…
“Cole wishes for us to winter in Iowa, with his family, and return here in the spring to make our permanent home.” When I couldn’t find words to reply Patricia implored, “Have you any news for me?”
My forehead crinkled; I wasn’t sure what news she thought I might possess.
“Miles proposed to you this very day, did he not? He spoke of it with Cole last night.” Patricia searched my face as if for clues. “Did he not?”
I located my voice. “He did.”
Her voice flowed like water over smooth rocks long ago sunk to the river bottom; I heard the desperation beneath those slick, wet stones. “You and Miles could accompany us on the journey east. Miles has not returned home to Iowa in over two years. We could winter there together. We would not have to part, Ruthie, don’t you see…”
Misgivings swarmed my skull. I knew she saw it in my eyes.
I’m so scared. Something is so wrong.
I tried to believe what she suggested could happen –
We could spend the winter together in Iowa and return here in the spring. I could become Mrs. Miles Rawley.
Oh, dear God…
Tears bloomed in Patricia’s eyes and overspilled; her voice shook. “Something is dreadfully wrong.”
“I know,” I whispered, numb with certainty.
Her grip on my hands became almost feral. “Axton…”
“He’s all right. He has to be.” I could not think otherwise.
“Promise me,” she begged, almost childlike in her intensity to believe in my words.
But I could not promise anything.
As the autumn weather was so fine the men made music well into the evening. I sat at the fire in the company of many with a bristling spike planted in my heart, oblivious to the surrounding merriment. The firelight flickered over Cole, Grant, and Stadlar as they played. And Miles. My dear, honorable Miles, who had told me today, in so many words, that he loved me. I watched him without ceasing, studying his face, his body, his long-fingered hands which cradled a fiddle with such ease, such grace and tenderness, the same way he touched everything he cared for. When the men struck up a waltz, Cole took a break from fiddling and asked Patricia to dance; I saw the way his arms locked about her, I saw how he studied her face.
When the whiskey jug made the rounds, I damned it all and took a cautious nip, unable to keep from gasping as the alcohol seared the interior of my mouth. But after the initial burning shock the whiskey built a small, comforting blaze in my belly. By the jug’s fourth round the booze had allowed my limbs to relax and I stole another long glug, backhanding droplets from my lips. The men were fiddling a waltz, one I recognized and loved, one Miles and Cole had played around the fire that night at Branch’s. Tears made my face all sticky. The alcohol in my blood lent everything an amber tint. My bones felt rubbery and my thoughts were slow, struggling across my mind like tiny tadpoles through syrup.
One of the ranch hands, a man named Jem, sat nearby. I leaned way over to tug his sleeve, wondering aloud, “Don’t they know any Bon Jovi?”
Jem crinkled his eyebrows. “How’s that, Miss Ruthann?”
I forgot what I’d asked, instead mumbling, “I have to puke…”
Jem must have read my lips because he lurched to his feet and hauled me away from the fire. I was peripherally aware of Miles handing off his instrument and following us; Jem relinquished me to Miles’s arms about halfway to the house.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped as another round of vomiting doubled me over.
“She’s liquored,” Jem explained needlessly; this fact was obvious.
Miles held me while I threw up all the whiskey I’d consumed. When it was apparent I had nothing more to heave, Miles led me inside the house and up the steps to the room I shared with Patricia; within the familiar space he helped me sit on the bed and then lit a candle.
“I’m so sorry,” I moaned, cradling my head.
Miles knelt before me, grasping my hands and kissing the back of each one. “There is nothing to apologize for.”
I groaned as another wave of nausea struck but this time I had nothing left to expel.
Without another word Miles bent to unlace my shoes, setting them on the floor near the foot of the bed. “Lie down. I will bring a cloth for your face.”
The room spun when I attempted to lie flat so I shifted to the side, drawing up my knees and concentrating on the sphere of light cast by the lantern. Miles was absent only moments before he returned with a cup of water and a dampened linen cloth, which he folded over my forehead. The mattress sagged as he sat near my hip. I held out my hand and he enfolded it, face again in shadow while the candle seemed to strike me in the eyes. “Rest. I won’t leave your side.”
“You are so good to me,” I whispered.
“I am in love with you,” he said somberly, and the despair that overtook me was so forceful I thought I might be split in two. I shook with it, the gashes reopened along my heart. I wanted Miles – but not exactly him. I couldn’t explain it any better than this. I only knew something deep inside me understood the disparity and perceived the depth of my need. I wanted my man, wherever he was; I needed him with all my heart. I had once been loved so completely and passionately even the echo of its memory was unbearable, now that it was gone. For whatever reason it was gone and I could not accept it.
“I want…I want…” I was repeating myself like a child, like a fucking idiot drunk. I sobbed, “I want…him. Oh God…oh God…where is he?”
“Ruthann.” Miles’s voice was husky with compassion. “Come here.”
He removed his pistol from its holster and placed it on the nightstand before collecting me in his arms, cupping the back of my head, drawing it to his chest. I clutched the material of his shirt, choking on sobs; his collar was soon soaked with my tears, for the second time today. He stroked my hair; his heart beat against mine. After a long time I fell silent, exhausted and spent, and Miles whispered, “I wish more than anything in this world I could give you what you want. Do you speak of your husband?”
A sighing shudder wracked my body as I nodded.
“Had I the power, I would return him to you, I swear this.” He pressed his lips to my forehead; his mustache was soft against my skin, his lips warm. “But I fear he is gone.”
No, I wailed, without sound. Deep inside, I could not accept this as truth.
“You sleep, sweet angel, I will hold you.”
I froze. “What did you say?”
He cupped my jaws and with utmost gentleness kissed my lips, which were wet with salty tears. “I said I will hold you. Trust me. I wish for you to trust me.”
I whispered honestly, “I do trust you, Miles.”
“For now, that is enough,” he whispered against my hair, and held me close to his heart.
Later I was to wonder what might have happened after that night, had fate taken a different direction. I was human, after all. Images replayed, rapid-fire, through my mind. I saw Miles as he appeared the first afternoon we’d met, astride Blade and smoking a cigar; I saw him gently administering a cloth to my bleeding forehead; playing his fiddle with all of his devoted love; lying near a banked fire along the trail while I contemplated crawling to his side and holding him and never letting go.
Oh Ruthann, oh God, you should have gone to him.
Why didn’t you?
Why…
Hours passed, carrying us into the deep black bowels of night. The music had long since ceased, the men on night rounds saddling up; Patricia had not appeared in our bedroom, leading me to believe she and Cole were somewhere together. Miles kept me close, my arms folded against his chest, his even breathing indicating he slept. When I jerked awake there seemed no apparent reason. I lay motionless and stiff, stretching out with my senses to recognize what had ripped me from sleep. At first I could hear nothing but the creaks of a house at rest; there wasn’t a breath of wind outside. Something was terribly wrong.
“Miles,” I whispered urgently, sitting up.
Miles rose, swift and soundless as a striking hawk, collecting his pistol in one smooth motion.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered, my heart sounding off like a gong.
He moved to the window, peering into the yard below from the edge of the glass. He murmured, “I’m not certain, but you woke me from a bad dream, I’ll not deny it. Something isn’t right.”
I slipped into my shoes, head aching and vision wavering, but determined to stay at his side. Miles’s posture changed, becoming threatening as he zeroed in upon something outside. I dropped to a crouch, terror sizzling through my center.
“Rider,” he said. With rapid, efficient movements, he grasped my arm. “Come.”
We clattered down the wooden steps.
Miles yelled, “Grant!”
Grant met us in the kitchen, tugging suspenders in place, pistol in hand. Both children were crying; I heard Birdie shushing them. The back door burst wide open, emitting Cole and Patricia. Grant tossed a shotgun from its wall hanger straight to Cole, who caught it and chambered a round. All three men gathered in the front yard, arranging themselves in a semi-circle and aiming their firearms at the approaching rider.
Cole lowered the shotgun. “It’s Axton!”
With those words Patricia flew from the house, me on her heels.
Axton slid from Ranger’s back almost before the horse was at a halt. He held his ribs and walked with a hitching gait; my heart lurched. Miles holstered his pistol and ran to catch Axton before he fell. Patricia raced to Axton’s other side but didn’t dare touch him, not knowing the extent of his wounds.
“Get him inside,” Grant instructed. “Birdie! We got a wounded man!”
Birdie, wrapped in a quilted robe, her hair in its customary nighttime braid, hurried to light two lanterns, sweeping the cloth from the table and bundling it in a corner. The boys were still crying from the direction of her bedroom but she paid them no mind.
Taking immediate stock of the situation, Birdie ordered, “I need a basin.”
Patricia flew for the hand pump in the kitchen.
“Axton,” I breathed, hovering at Miles’s elbow as he helped him atop the table. My innards seized; there was blood all along Axton’s right side.
Birdie rolled up her sleeves and brought one of the lanterns closer.
Flat on his back, allowing Birdie to unbutton his shirt, Axton whispered, “I got here as fast as I could.”
Miles rested a hand on Ax’s upper arm and kept his voice calm. “What’s happening?”
Axton grimaced as Birdie removed his shirt and eased down the waist of his trousers, all of us gaping at him like he was some sort of science experiment. Axton’s lean torso was wet with sweat and rusty-red blood had crusted along his ribs and over a deep wound near his right hip. The last I’d seen him he’d been riding east, waving farewell, bound for Howardsville. He focused on me and I clutched his outstretched hand.
“What is it, Ax? What’s happened?”
“They killed Uncle Branch.” He sounded like a stranger, his voice hoarse and rough.
“Who?” Grant demanded.
I understood plainly it was no time for sympathy but my heart shredded at Axton’s words. I clung to his hand. Patricia returned with the basin, her face as white as bare bone, terrified eyes tracking all over Axton, absorbing every detail.
“Men rode into town and killed Deputy Furlough just before sundown,” Axton said in the stranger’s voice. “Killed him and tore up the jailhouse. Set fire to it next.”
Miles was up and pacing.
I shifted to the side so Birdie could better examine the extent of the damage; she ordered, “Hold the lantern near,” and inspected him with knowledgeable eyes. “I see two wounds. This one on your hip needs cleaning and stitching. There’s no time to waste.”
Cole demanded, “What men?”
Axton’s eyes roved from face to face; he reminded me of a spooked horse. I cupped his cheek, cold against my palm. “Sweetheart, listen to me, it’s all right. You’re all right. What men are you talking about?”
Standing near his hip, Birdie bunched a damp cloth and began dabbing away dried blood. With determination, I kept focused on his eyes.
“Axton,” I implored.
He drew a shallow breath. “We were in town because Ruby threw a shoe. We heard the shots from Lyle’s,” and I knew he meant the blacksmith’s barn, adjacent to the livery stable. “And there was Deputy Furlough in the street, bent over his gut…”
“Then what?” I whispered.
“Two men were on horses and they were yelling. One was Aemon Turnbull.” My heart plummeted at this name. “They wanted to know where the marshal was. They shot up the jailhouse windows.”
Miles stopped pacing; his distressed gaze found and held mine.
Axton clenched his jaws as Birdie continued her ministrations; he sought Patricia’s attention, already fixed upon him, and whispered her name.
“I’m here,” she breathed, moving as close as she dared, smoothing hair from his sweating forehead.
Axton reached and gently clasped her wrist. “The Yancys’ train cars came back late this afternoon. I’ve kept watch since they left, weeks back, but now they’ve returned.”
Patricia faltered. Cole was there at once, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist.
Oh Jesus, she said with no sound.
“They’re coming for me,” she choked, her voice so thin and reedy it hardly sounded like her own. Her hands flew to her face, fingertips making divots in her skin. “They do not believe me dead. Of course they would make certain for themselves.”
“You are not theirs,” Cole said heatedly.
Patricia stood immobile, mired in a nightmare.
Cole spoke again, more adamantly. “Patricia!”
Miles asked Axton, “Did anyone follow you?”
Ax tore his eyes from Patricia. “No, I swear, no.”
“We can’t take chances. We have to assume they did,” Grant said.
Axton tried to sit. “Marshal, Uncle Branch knew the other man riding with Turnbull. It was the one called Vole.”