Chapter Twenty-Eight
Montana Territory - June, 1882
I WOKE SHROUDED BY UNEASE, THE REMNANTS OF A BAD dream lingering for a last second before wakefulness swept them away. Sweat plastered my nightgown to my skin. Our room was veiled in the darkness of deep night, morning still hours away, but awareness pulsed at the base of my neck and I sat straight, the covers falling to my hips.
Camille…
I hear you…
“What’s wrong, love?” Marshall murmured, rolling over, wakened by the sound of my voice.
“I don’t know exactly. I was having a nightmare…” I threw off the quilt and hurried from our bed, drawn to the single window to peer out at the black night, plagued by the sense that my oldest sister had just called my name. I’d been restored to full consciousness for a reason – something out there demanded my attention and Camille wanted me to know. But what? I shivered so hard I would have pitched forward out the window if not for the glass.
Marshall was on my heels, clutching my upper arms in a gesture both concerned and protective. He drew me from the window – and potential harm’s way – sheltering me against his nude body. “Same here. I was dreaming about Garth and Case and Mathias, just now. They were singing at The Spoke and something was really wrong. Something was about to happen, I don’t know what exactly, I just knew they were in danger.”
Shivers rippled over every inch of my flesh; my voice emerged as a terrified, high-pitched bleat. “Camille was trying to tell me something, just now. Marsh, something’s happening…”
“Stay away from the window,” he ordered, grabbing clothes from the floor, scurrying into them before opening our bedroom door and yelling, “Grant!”
It was more than I could bear – far too similar to the night last summer when Miles was shot and killed. “No,” I choked, watching Marshall buckle his gun belt into place around his hips. “No, don’t go down there.”
He crossed the room in three strides to gather me close, understanding the reason behind my distress. Harsh, unyielding in his conviction, he said, “Angel, listen to me. I’m not Miles. I will not die and leave you alone, do you hear me?”
Raised voices in the rooms below, the household roused to action. I heard Grant and Birdie, then Celia; baby Jacob began crying. Thunking clatters met our ears as rifles were pulled from the rack and boxes of bullets retrieved from the top drawer of the hutch. No chances would be taken this time.
“Do you think Miles thought he was going to die?” I cried, not about to release my hold on Marshall. “He had no control over what happened, just like we have no control!”
“I can’t argue with that, Ruthie, it’s not fair.”
“Don’t tell me what’s fair!” Pregnancy robbed me of what little emotional control stress had not; tears painted wet tracks over my face. “And don’t you dare mention dying! Knock on wood, right now!”
Grant hollered up the stairs. “Marsh! Rider!”
Holding my gaze, Marshall reached and rapped his knuckles firmly on the doorframe, then planted a kiss flush on my lips and tucked me close to his side. “I love you, Ruthann Rawley. C’mon. Stay beside me.”
The rooms below remained shrouded in darkness as we descended the stairs; lighted candles would obscure the view outdoors. Grant, armed with a rifle, waited to the left of the front windows. Birdie and Celia had herded the boys into the pantry, a small, windowless space in which Birdie had once stitched Axton’s gunshot wounds.
“Ruthie, come join us,” she ordered in a hushed whisper.
Marshall kissed me once more, quick and possessive. “I’ll be right here.”
He took up a position to the right of the windows, opposite Grant, as we all strained to listen. Celia, sitting on the floor with her back braced on the pantry wall, nursed Jacob so he would keep quiet while Birdie knelt, holding her boys around their waists. I crouched beside Birdie and her sons, pressing both fists to my lips.
Shouting voices outside – I heard Axton’s among them.
“Grant! Marsh! Rider from Howardsville!” Ax yelled, and Grant lowered his rifle barrel from a position of direct threat, flinging open the outer door.
Axton, who slept in the bunkhouse, entered in the company of three other men, two of them ranch hands, the third unknown to me. Axton carried a lantern and everyone spoke at once. The pantry allowed for a slanted view of the action; behind Birdie and me, Celia murmured, “That’s Pete Darnell’s boy, from the telegraph office in town.”
Grant ordered, “Hush up, you-all! Darnell, what’s this about?”
Darnell pulled a slip of paper from inside his shirt, which he thrust at Grant. “Telegram for you, from Iowa. Sender requested immediate delivery, so I told Pa I’d ride out.” He was young, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen; excitement radiated from him at the privilege of such an important and urgent errand.
“From Iowa?” Axton spoke roughly and I knew, like me, his first thought was of Patricia.
I refused to stay put in the pantry and scrambled to my feet. Marshall reached with his free arm and gathered me close to his side while Grant unfolded the tattered paper containing the message; rifle propped against his hip, Grant cleared his throat and began reading.
“‘Camille arrived this morning…’”
My heart slammed to a halt; Marshall and I stared at each other with flat-out stun.
Grant read on, “‘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.” He paused for a split second, rereading a line. “Cole and Patricia are safe. Request word when rider is sent. Malcolm A. Carter.’”
“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.” Marshall’s eyebrows were lofted almost to his hairline.
“When was
