I held my precious child in my arms and pressed his face into my chest. By the time I’d reached him, he’d rolled Mouse O’Brien over and was tearing open Mouse’s crisp white shirt. The big man’s eyes opened, and his face moved in recognition. “Nothing sadder than a fool for love, is there, Mrs. MacGillivray?” He closed his eyes. In the poor light cast by the kerosene lamp, now beginning to splutter and go out, Mouse’s left side glistened bright with blood.
“Stay still,” I whispered, to both Mouse and Angus. For once Angus didn’t argue. He settled into my embrace, and I felt his thin shoulders shudder.
My mind didn’t process the words that were being exchanged between Irene, Sterling and Maggie. I could only feel the emotion as it swirled around the room and close my heart against the scorn and the despair.
But I heard Irene’s cold voice and Richard’s cry of “no” and the sound of crashing furniture, and I heard the bark of the pistol, and for a flash of time all was quiet, the only sound being the sigh that marked the last breath of life as it left a body. Then Martha Witherspoon screamed at the top of her lungs, and we were surrounded by men, all shouting at once. I closed my eyes, murmured sweet nothings, and cradled my child.
And, for the first time in a long time, he was content to be held.
Richard Sterling fell to his knees beside Maggie Brandon.
The gun slid across the floor, and he let it go. Maggie would have no use for it again. Her body twitched as her life force departed, and her blood spread out across the wooden floor of the Savoy. Fiona MacGillivray had Angus pressed tightly against her body, and her eyes were closed.
She was all right. They were both all right. But Mouse O’Brien needed a doctor. Fast.
Men ran into the room from all directions. Sterling stood up. Irene Davidson was looking into his eyes.
He walked slowly towards her, to where she stood beneath a painting of an undressed woman. She didn’t move. He stopped inches from her. “It didn’t have to end this way,” he said, so softly no one else could hear. “You could’ve talked her out of it.”
Irene looked up at him with eyes that were dark and empty. She shrugged. She wore a lovely gown, but now it looked tawdry. “What’s the point? You heard her confess to killing Chloe. She was going to hang; if she’d lived to stand trial, she’d cause everyone a lot of trouble first.”
A Mountie shouted for a doctor. Miss Forester, yelling loudly enough to be heard over the din, demanded to be allowed inside. Someone bustled Martha Witherspoon, whose screams had settled into hysterical sobs, outside before she could turn around and look at the scene behind her.
Ray Walker burst into the room. He ran to Irene, shouting a stream of words, but his Scottish accent was so overpowering, Sterling couldn’t understand a single word.
Irene lowered her eyes, turned her back on Sterling, and allowed Walker to put his arms around her. Her shoulders shook as she began to cry. Walker patted her back while his gaze took in the scene in his saloon. Fiona and Angus were still huddled together on the floor, while beside them the doctor tended to Mouse O’Brien, whose curses would have him tossed out of town if anyone bothered to take offence.
Over Irene’s heaving shoulder, Walker looked at Sterling, and said, “You’ll look after her.” It was as much a statement as a question.
“If she allows me to.”