A quiet yellow slice of sun crested the horizon as if to emphasize this statement and a small prickle of hope caught me unaware. In that golden-tinted moment I let myself believe my son and I would be welcomed, that all would be well; we would find sanctuary in Minnesota and then, next summer, we would venture west to Cole’s parents, to claim our own homestead acreage.
But I should have known better.
Cole and I had less than a day left together and somewhere, beyond our perception, the timepiece had already begun its rapid ticking toward zero.
I woke with no earthly idea where I was, aware of nothing but the fact that something was dreadfully wrong. Buried alive was my first thought, for I lay prone beneath heavy layers, unable to lift arms or legs. Inundated by blistering heat and dull pain, I turned my head to the side in an attempt to determine a single point of orientation. Met by little but darkness, fear drummed an increasing beat inside my head. A small bundle tucked close to my breasts shifted with small, mewling grunts.
Monty, I realized, groping for facts through the haze in my mind. Outside, the wind had gained in strength, causing the canvas covering stretched over the wagon’s ribs to flap like a flag.
Something is wrong.
Cole…
My tongue scraped the backsides of my teeth but no sound materialized. I could not manage the requisite strength to lift to one elbow, disabled by weakness. No way to gauge how many hours had passed since retiring to bed; the fever had gained in severity while I slept. I realized Cole was not in the wagon. Often he slept near the fire, the better to keep watch with the men. Encroaching swiftly now was the recognition of danger, beating like the hooves of cantering horses across the hot, feverish plain of my awareness.
They’re coming.
They’re coming because of me and I have to warn the men.
Oh dear God, it is my fault.
Cole…Malcolm…
Monty’s grunting gained in strength and a small scuffling beyond the wagon met my ears. My shoulders sank with momentary relief. Cole must have heard the baby. Any second he would emerge from the windy predawn and I could warn him that someone was approaching our position, and just as swiftly he would reassure me that no one had followed us these past weeks of travel; no Fallon Yancy on our trail, my agitation nothing more than a nightmare conjured by a fevered mind.
To some extent, this was correct; it was not Fallon or his men closing in on our camp, using the gathering storm as cover.
A single gunshot cracked the air.
Monty shrieked at his highest register and began wailing.
I whimpered, clutching him close to my chest as mounted horses surrounded our camp; buzzing, shouting chaos reached my ears through the wind.
“Stand down, we’ve got you surrounded!”
“Drop that sidearm! Toss it aside!”
“On your goddamn knees!”
“This man’s been shot!”
“I told you to hold your goddamned fire!”
“Where is Patricia? Tell me at once!”
I knew that last voice and whimpered anew, bending as best I could around my baby’s soft, vulnerable body, my own a pitiful, fragile shield.
“You will not go near her, you son of a bitch!”
No, oh please no, I begged, hearing Cole’s roaring shouts followed by a ferocious struggle.
Another gunshot and I lurched as though the bullet had pierced my flesh; Monty’s sobbing cries were at once muted as my ears rang from the inside out. Who had been shot?! Seconds later Dredd Yancy’s head and shoulders appeared at the oval opening to the rear of the wagon. Clad in riding garments, wool cloak, and a wide-brimmed hat, he lofted a lantern and peered inside, containing his shock and disbelief with monumental effort.
His lips moved, forming my name.
I closed my eyes, trying to hide Monty from his sight against my fevered body.
Oh dear God, no…
Dredd disappeared from view. More shouting, cursing, threats. The ringing subsided enough for individual words to penetrate.
“He’s bleeding out!” Malcolm growled. “He will die and you will be at fault!”
Did he mean Cole?! Or Blythe?
Dredd raged, “Let him die! My wife appears ill! She requires care!”
Another voice I knew cut through Dredd’s anger, that of my father-in-law, Thomas Yancy. Colder than raw steel, exactly as I remembered, Thomas said, “Your wife is a common whore. You realize this, do you not? That bastard squalling in the wagon likely belongs to this fellow.”
I imagined Dredd rounding on Cole. Effectively blinded by the wagon’s canvas covering, I had only their words to gauge what was occurring outside. My heart throbbed with agony, pulsing through every channel in my body. I strained to hear over the wind gusts.
“Touch them and I will kill you,” Cole spit out, hoarse and raw – he was injured, I could tell by the distortion of his words.
Monty’s screams pierced the brightening air, now several shades lighter gray.
“Shoot him, son.” Thomas Yancy spoke with mockery, the tone he often used when addressing Dredd. I knew he considered his youngest a weakling, a helpless fop. Fallon was Thomas’s favorite, a ruthless businessman and killer, a son of which a man like Thomas Yancy could be proud. He goaded, “Shoot your wife’s lover right between the eyes and be done with it. You’ll never have a cleaner shot.” Undiluted contempt swelled in the loathsome man’s voice. “Ain’t that why we’ve come all this way?”
“I know you for a better man than that, Dredd.” Malcolm spoke with a preternatural calm, belying his fury. “You are not your brother. You are not your father.”
“Fancy seeing you here, young Carter.” Thomas sounded almost giddy and I pictured his pale eyes alighting on Malcolm. “Not so very far from the place where you took a shot at me, all those years ago.”
“If I’d’ve aimed truer that night, you woulda been sent to hell long before now.” I envisioned Malcolm’s flashing eyes, his elevated chin. “It’s one of many regrets but I’m a better shot now, that I promise
