Right. On my way, love.
“Damnedest thing,” Thornhill mutters, as we travel down thehall. “What are the odds?” He suddenly stops and pulls off my glasses. “I readthe newspaper only this morning—sensational story about a blind girl whooverheard a murderer’s confession. But I didn’t believe it.”
Seconds tick by as Thornhill studies my face. Emotions swirl aroundhim. He’s terrified of being exposed for his crime and completely baffled as tohow he ended up here with me. “How could you know? I never said a word toanyone. Not a living soul.”
A sliding, metallic sound. Like the hammer of a revolverclicking into place.
Take care, Tom. Gun.
“Don’t move a muscle,” Thornhill says. He presses the hard noseof the weapon into my hip. “We’re going to the stables now, and you’ll do justas I tell you.”
We take a few steps and something big hurtles past me andtackles Thornhill, knocking him to the ground. Things happen simultaneously—anawful popping sound, the smell of gunpowder and sharp particles bouncing offthe wall next to my head. They puncture my cheek in several places. I stumble,fall backwards, and hit the floor. My ears are bleeding from the sound waves,and I retch, willing myself not to vomit as I subdue my hearing.
Holy hell.
Humanity floods the hall—still so loud, so loud—and Kelly callsmy name. People shout complaints as he pushes them aside. “Where’s the fire?” “Lookout, good fellow!” “Who do you think you are?” My head pounds with the noise.
“What happened?” he asks, reaching me. “There’s blood on yourface. Are you all right?”
Still a little dazed, I nod and point to where Thornhill fell.The killer is crying. “An accident,” he wails. “Didn’t mean to hurt him.”
He smells of terror and regret. This clears the confusion in myhead, replacing it with panic. Tom? Dearest? Are you there?
Aye, love. Don’t worry.
Deo favente. Thank the gods you’re safe!
A great commotion erupts as David Thornhill is taken throughthe back exit. “Help me,” he says. “Send for my attorney.”
Kelly kneels down beside Tom, and immediately begins cursing.“I’ll need my medical bag. Craddock’s been hit.”
What? The bullet struck you? How bad is it? Why didn’t yousay something?
K-knew... you’d…fret.
I crawl forward and grasp Tom’s leg, working my way up hisbody. The leather duster—Tom’s cowboy coat—feels slick in some places. Blood,so much blood! I find his hand and lift it to my heart. Hold on, sweetheart.That’s it. You’re going to be fine, I just know it. Kelly shouts orders—hasthe crowd disbanded and clean linen brought. The doctor is strangely quiet ashe works on Tom.
My beloved coughs. Wet, sputtering. “Amor vincit omnia,”he whispers.
A tear rolls off my chin, drops onto our threaded fingers.Another cough breaks through Tom’s lips, and a horrifying realization strikesme. He’s saying goodbye.
You can’t leave, Tom. What an idiotic notion.
But his thoughts grow hazy, and he shudders under my hand. Ikiss his forehead, eyelids, and cheeks, over and over, blood soaking through mygloves and smudging my chin. I would gladly sell my soul to the highest bidder,if it meant saving Tom’s life. I send message after message, pleading for himto live.
Breathe, darling! Don’t give up. You’re all I have in theworld. Can’t you see?
So cold, Hettie. Hold me tighter.
I cradle him as close as I can, but he doesn’t respond. Don’tyou dare quit, Thomas Craddock. You stay and fight.
Lifting his knuckles to my mouth, I close my eyes, and listen,until the whole universe narrows to the beating of just two hearts. Thud-thud.Thud-thud. His grows slower and slower and finally stops. No, stay. Stayhere. Then my body seizes, as though I’m drowning, and I can’t get any air.I rock back and forth—Wait, Tom. Wait for me—keening in my head, stillclutching his hand. But Kelly interrupts and hauls me to my feet. Hehits me hard on the back, and shocked, I gasp in oxygen.
“Get her out of here!” the doctor yells.
Someone takes me to a nearby room. Is it James Scarlett?Whoever the fellow is, he puts me on a chair, and shoves a drink into my hand.I don’t know what to do with the scotch so I rest it on my thigh. Tom? Tom?He doesn’t answer. Why would he be so cruel? His silence is enough to kill me.I drop the drink and the glass bounces away. Rising to my feet, I feel unmooredand adrift in a life that makes no sense. What do I do now? Where have they takenTom that he cannot hear?
Oblivion embraces me and I succumb.
The smell of lye is strong, like the laundering house after abusy day of cleaning sheets. Other scents permeate the air, more medicinal innature, and my tongue tastes bitter. What are those sounds? Horses? Carriagesdashing down the street? They’re driving so fast. At first, I am befuddled bythese unfamiliar conditions, but memory has a way of catching up with one.
Heavy as a stone, it presses against every cell in my being.Yet I feel empty, too—like a fruitless, hollow pod waiting to be cast into thefire.
Tom, my love. Tom…
Nothing. Just the painful clarity of my own thoughts.
This private grieving is interrupted when someone walks downthe hall toward my room. It’s a woman, I think. She moves slowly, side to side,as though each step brings discomfort. Old age, perhaps? A bad back? Turning myface into the pillow, I stop myself. I do not wish to play this idiotic guessinggame. What’s the point?
The door to my room opens, and a woman shuffles over to thebed. “Good,” she says. “You’re awake. I’ll get Dr. Kelly.”
I roll over and draw my knees to my stomach. If only Kellywould stay away. Leave me alone for a while. But he comes quickly and makes aracket, pulling a chair to the side of my bed. He sits down and waits for halfa minute in silence before touching my shoulder.
“Stop pretending you’re asleep, Hester,” he says. “You’re atStonehenge Hospital. I brought you here last night and removed the splintersfrom your face. Particles from when the bullet hit a wooden beam in the ceiling.Looks worse than it is at the moment, but
