“I did. We might want to camp at snow line tonight and wait until morning to cross. We’ll see when we get up there.”
“I really do love you,” he told her with a smile as he pulled on his boots. “First I’ve got to use the jakes out back, and then I’ll help you pack.”
She followed him out into the main room where Aggie had poured herself a cup of coffee and stood with her rear propped on the kitchen table.
“Morning, Aggie,” Bret called. “I guess we owe you.”
“Sorry for the bad news, Bret. I figgered you needed to know soonest.”
“You’re an angel.” Bret turned to Sarah. “I’ll be right back and give you a hand with the packing.” But he paused. Bent to her, and kissed her. Then, with a wink, he patted her on the cheek.
“I do envy the two of you,” Aggie said with a sigh. “And I am really going to miss you. When you get back, we’re going to have to figure out how to handle interest in the house.”
“We’ve got plenty of time,” Sarah told her as Bret opened the door.
In that instant she didn’t recognize the figure standing in the doorway. Backlit, he was just a silhouette. Tall, in a sack coat, his right hand extended. Light gleamed on the revolver’s long barrel.
Bret had stopped short, one hand still on the door, the other at his side.
“Found you, you cod-sucking bastard.” Parmelee’s flat voice echoed out of the past.
Sarah had barely gasped a breath when the pistol was shoved into Bret’s chest and fired. Bret’s body blocked most of it, but Sarah saw the sparks and smoke as the cap split under the hammer.
Bret jerked.
Parmelee cocked the revolver. Triggered it again, the crack deafening.
And again.
As Bret collapsed backward, Parmelee shot him yet again.
Bret’s body hit the floor like a limp sack. Sarah felt the impact through the boards. The back of Bret’s head made a hollow thump. His shirt, right over the breastbone, was blackened and fingers of fire flickered from the cloth.
Sarah stood frozen, heart beating in her chest. Then she threw herself down, reaching for him.
Bret’s eyes, brown and limpid, were wide with shock as they met hers. His mouth worked, tongue pink behind his irregular teeth.
She saw it. The fading of light. The widening of his pupils. The muscles in his face went slack; Bret’s eyes fixed on emptiness and eternity.
“Bret? Oh, God. Bret?”
Stunned disbelief seemed to paralyze her.
As though from a great distance, she heard a pistol cock, a voice say, “Stay right where you are, you treacherous bitch.”
Sarah, blinked, ran her fingers down Bret’s still warm face, twined her fingers in his beard.
“You killed him, you son of a bitch! Shot him down like a dog!” Aggie’s voice. Angry. Panicked.
Sarah glanced up, saw Parmelee, his deadly revolver on Aggie where she stood in horrified disbelief.
Sarah made herself stand on wobbling legs, turned to face Parmelee. She started forward, was going to claw his eyes out.
His pistol moved like a blur. Pain and lightning flashed behind her eyes, the impact of the gun against her temple heard through bone and blood.
Dazed, head ringing, she staggered.
In her swimming vision, she barely registered the fist that rose under her jaw. A thousand stars exploded through her head, and …
81
May 6, 1867
Like someone was driving a pick into her head.
Pain.
It speared through Sarah’s brain. Through her whole being. Through her very soul.
Her skull was broken. She could feel the jagged pieces of it rubbing against each other. Tortured nerves speared agony through her.
A body couldn’t survive pain like this.
She blinked, tried to clear her swimming vision.
When she would have felt her head, sought to discover the extent of the damage, she couldn’t move her arms.
Blinking through the pain, she tried to focus. She seemed to be lying on her chest. Somewhere soft. The bed. Her bed. Her hands were bound to the big brass headboard. She could see the knotted ropes.
Couldn’t … understand them.
For long moments, she just sucked in breaths, as if they’d soothe the pain.
Somewhere she heard whimpering, and wondered if it was her own.
Her arms ached. That reality came filtering through the pain in her head.
Something terrible.
Yes.
She tried to cling to the memory, but it slipped away.
Got to get loose.
She heard herself whine as she tried to rise. Through the jab of pain, she felt her foot slip, and flopped. She was half off the bed, her weight pulling her arms.
Slowly, she managed to get her feet under her.
Legs trembling, she lifted.
Shifted.
Raising her head, she looked around. Her mirror was broken. The bedroom door was swung wide. She could see late afternoon sunlight slanting into the kitchen as if the front door were open.
The whimpering came again.
From her angle, Sarah could see someone’s arm on the tabletop, the wrist tied to the rear table leg.
It made no sense.
Who’d tie someone over a tabletop?
She swallowed, her mouth and tongue dried and sticking.
Think!
Her dress was wadded around her feet, the rounded moons of her bare buttocks goosefleshed from the cold. In agonizing slowness, she crawled onto the bed, felt the cool air blow around her breasts.
She looked down; her breasts hung and hurt. She’d seen bruises like that before.
In that instant, she lived it again. Hands were grasping her, cupping her breasts and squeezing, bringing a torn scream from between her gritted lips. With it came the jolting as she was taken from behind. Each thrust deep and brutal, as if to drive up through her center and into her heart.
And then it was gone. A mere memory. But from when?
Crawling forward, she used her teeth. Her head still radiated a splitting pain, as if an ax were driven into her skull; some animal instinct kept her chewing on the ropes until she worried the knot loose, and pulled her
