You saved Patricia and Cole. They’re no longer in Dredd Yancy’s path. And Blythe, he’s safe now too. And Patricia’s baby, don’t forget about him!
I hadn’t even set eyes on the baby.
Malcolm made a low clucking sound to Aces, tightening his right knee, and Aces responded at once, slowing to a graceful walk. I’d noticed many times throughout the day how effortlessly the horse responded to Malcolm, almost as if they were one being. After Malcolm’s teasing about my hair in his face I’d braided its length, tucking it over my right shoulder. The immediacy of his strong, lean body behind mine proved torturous; constant reminders that I couldn’t want him this way were of no use. I wanted him in every way.
We had covered an entire gamut of conversational topics over the hours of riding but still managed to sidestep the story of Cora’s disappearance. I’d told him of Mathias and our children, of living in the homesteader’s cabin that he and his brother, Boyd, had indeed built. He was full of questions and demanded lengthy descriptions of everything and everyone, which I was happy to deliver; Mathias and I had been correct in our assumption that Cora and Malcolm intended to live together in the little cabin. I was further stunned to discover that Cora’s mother’s name had been Millie. Aces continued along the town’s dusty main street until Malcolm drew him to a halt in front of a general store; a small, hand-lettered sign propped in the window read ‘Telegraph Station.’
“How can you stand upright?” I groaned as he dismounted with ease. “My legs feel like two-by-fours.”
“Years of practice.” He helped me from Aces, keeping a gentle grip on my waist until certain I was steady. The sun sprawled low on the horizon, visible between two false-fronted buildings, amber light spilling in bright beams to spangle my vision. I fought dizziness and hunger, disorientation and low-grade panic. Malcolm held my gaze, concern creasing his brow.
“You need food and rest,” he said softly. “Come. We’ll send word and then find a bite to eat.”
The telegraph operator wrote out the message as we dictated, debating over exact wording with every sentence; the operator was a patient man. I thought of the telegram Malcolm had sent on Christmas Day, 1876, in which he’d described missing home so much he hurt. Watching him now, six and a half years later, a man whose bearing was one of admirable strength, who carried himself with an abundance of grace and capability, I was overcome with pride and happiness and love and lust, a complex knot of emotion. Tears flecked my lashes and I turned away so the telegraph operator, already clicking out our message on his small device, wouldn’t think I was crazy. Malcolm rested a hand on my lower back, warm and reassuring, as we waited.
The telegram read, CAMILLE ARRIVED THIS MORNING. PLEASE GET IMMEDIATE WORD TO GRANT AND MARSHALL RAWLEY. TELL THEM FALLON IS ON HIS WAY. WILL REACH YOU BY TOMORROW. BE PREPARED. DO NOT LEAVE FOR HOWARDSVILLE. C&P SAFE. REQUEST WORD WHEN RIDER IS SENT. MALCOLM A. CARTER.
“What if someone doesn’t ride out there tonight?” I worried as we descended the wooden steps out front in the rich copper glow of sunset. “Because they don’t understand how serious this is! What if Fallon is already in Howardsville? What if he showed up early?”
Malcolm stopped midstride and turned to face me, gently grasping my upper arms. “Hey. We’ll check back here as soon as we’ve found a place to stay the night, don’t you worry. We’ve done all we can for now. Think of what you’ve accomplished today. You oughta be proud of yourself.”
“You’re right,” I whispered. “Thank you.”
He offered his right arm, with a sweet half-grin lifting the right side of his mouth. “May I escort you to dinner? If I remember correctly, they serve a fine plate of fried chicken at the hotel, yonder.”
We crossed the street, anonymous in this little town other than a few curious glances at my strange modern outfit. I did not allow my thoughts to stray beyond each passing second; I felt almost as though we walked together through a dream sequence, through the warm balm of the tail end of a hot afternoon, candle lanterns blinking to life in establishments remaining open for the evening hours. Too much had happened today, far too much to deal with; right now there was only Malcolm Carter, holding my arm and asking what I liked best to eat.
“Best of all?” I asked, squeezing his elbow closer to my side. “It would have to be the fried fish we serve at Shore Leave. The only times I couldn’t eat it was when I was pregnant. My morning sickness was always too bad in the first few months.”
Just like Mathias, Malcolm was an expert at maintaining easygoing conversation; talking, storytelling, yarn-spinning, all came naturally to the Carters. “Lorie is a midwife. I remember her saying many a time that morning sickness is a good sign.”
“I’ve always heard the same. I went through it five times and my babies were all healthy.” My throat tightened at the mention of my children, as it had each time we’d discussed them today. I couldn’t explain it – the ache of missing Mathias and our children was a long, double-sided blade jammed through my heart, existing simultaneously alongside the buoyant joy of being near Malcolm. There were no words to describe this paradox of feelings and so I did not attempt to understand. I simply felt – and in feeling, somehow understood.
His soul is Mathias’s soul. And yours is Cora’s. You belong with both of them in this way. And they belong to you. What is fate if not the force that pulled you to him this very morning?
“Millie Jo, Brantley, Henry…which of them has my name as his second?” he demanded.
“Brantley,” I whispered around a lump. “He’s about the sweetest of my babies.”
“And then comes Lorie, and
