We can deal with the bodies later. Same with the soiled sheets and birthing mess. Kate swears she is strong enough to battle the fire if it manages to spread to the house. For now, we’ll let the stable burn. It can be rebuilt. Most things can. But Reece and Jesse, not in the slightest, and something with the train setup has gone horribly wrong.
Both of the Riders’ horses follow me, and I’m in too much of a hurry to bother chasing them off. It’s roughly an hour to the rails, and I need to make time. My hastily bandaged palm stings with each slap of the reins, and the torn fabric of my dress flaps against my shoulder. I should have changed or taken a jacket, gathered more ammunition. I should have done a lot of things, but I left too quickly, driven by fear, with nothing but the Winchester and a few more rounds.
The mountains become a blur, a whirring tunnel of dirt and rock and green pines. And then, in the middle of the trail, just before it opens onto the plain, is Jesse, slumped forward on his horse.
“Jesse!” I pull up alongside him. His shoulder is slick with blood, and when he raises his head to greet my gaze, he can barely keep his eyes from rolling. He is likely swimming in pain, perhaps on the verge of losing consciousness. “What happened? Where’s Reece?”
“Kate . . .” he says. “The baby.”
“They’re fine.”
“Two men. At the house. Reece said—”
“They’re taken care of. Kate’s fine. William, too.”
“Will.” He says the name as if it is the greatest treasure.
“Where’s Reece?”
“With Rose.”
With him? That can’t be right. He wouldn’t betray us. Not after everything.
“Stay here,” I tell Jesse. “Or keep riding if you can manage. I’ll catch up in a moment.”
I nudge Silver again, and we surge forward.
Chapter Forty-Seven
* * *
Reece
Rose pushes his jacket?back, slow, tucking it behind his holsters. Only the left piece is stowed there, its grip gleaming in the sunlight. The other still lies where he dropped it after my bullet found his leg.
I lost my hat back in the boxcar and am left squinting hard in the sun. Rose’s face is a blank canvas, mouth and nose bright, eyes and brow dark from the shadow cast by his hat. The day is deathly still—no wind, breeze, nothing. Blades of grass stand like tombstones. Our jackets hang by our knees like iron shields.
Even with my weapon already drawn and his in a holster, I know he can best me.
So when he moves, I’m struck through with shock, ’cus it’s slow and cautious, the kind of harmless draw I seen many men do in the gang’s presence.
Palm showing, he lowers his left hand till the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger can lift the revolver from his belt. The barrel stays pointed at the ground, the grip resting on the back of his hand as he holds it before him. With it balancing like that, he surrenders.
I ain’t never seen Luther Rose surrender to no one. But here he stands, offering his weapon to me.
Ain’t that amazing—how a person can change.
The slightest breeze skims over the plain. My bangs snag in my lashes. Rose’s jacket ripples at his knees. Just as suddenly as it started, the breeze dies, and the peacefulness of the moment goes with it. The air ’round Rose is suddenly laced with tension.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and I know I been wrong ’bout everything.
He moves fast as lightning, and the pistol comes up, grip sliding into his palm.
I aim and he aims, and two shots rattle the stillness of the valley.
Luther Rose drops to the dirt and I
feel
invincible.
Chapter Forty-Eight
* * *
Charlotte
They stand apart in the distance, connected only by the dark shape of the tracks, which seems to string them together like beads on a cord. I draw Silver’s rein, frozen with surprise.
Reece’s weapon is aimed at Rose, who appears to be surrendering, but I somehow know it will not be that simple. The devil wears wings at all the right times and then casts them aside when we believe him to be an angel.
Don’t fall for it, Reece. Whatever he’s telling you, don’t believe it.
Reece’s gun dips just slightly—he thinks it’s over, that the devil has come clean. That’s when Rose’s hand twitches and Reece sees the truth.
Their weapons come up.
There are two gunshots.
And they both fall.
Chapter Forty-Nine
* * *
Reece
I feel the cold, burning pain only after I’ve slumped to my knees.
There’s a hole near the pocket of my jacket, a gaping wound just above my hip. There ain’t enough blood, not to match the pain.
I slump to my side and roll back to look at the sky. It is the biggest blanket, the most peaceful quilt. The earth beneath me is cold.
You did it, Reece. You did it.
The Rose Kid is dead.
Reece Murphy is free.
Chapter Fifty
* * *
Charlotte
Silver carries me into the valley, over thorny burrs, around angry shrub. It must take a good five minutes to reach them. I draw rein beside Rose and check him first. I will never make the mistake of not checking again.
He is dead. The bullet has punched a hole into his chest, right over his heart, and he doesn’t look as if he felt even an ounce of pain. His lips are barely parted.
One of the horses that followed Silver nudges the body with her muzzle. Rose’s steed, perhaps.
“Reece?” I run to him. He’s staring up at the sky, clearly in pain. Rose commits a lifetime of atrocities and blinks out like a candle, but Reece is forced to endure this after all he’s already weathered. It doesn’t seem fair. It isn’t.
“It’s you,” he says, surprised. His eyes find the ripped state of my sleeve, and then realization dawns on his face. “Did Jesse—? I sent him to . . .”
“No. I passed him on the trail. But Kate’s fine. And I’ll make sure Jesse is, too.”
“Are you hurt?”
He means it—this ridiculous question when I am whole and he’s been shot. There’s blood above his hip, a hole in the pocket of his jacket. Beneath, his shirt is wet—stained red—and when I pull the fabric back, I can see the bullet lodged there, his skin swelling around the lead. Blood seeps with each breath he takes.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, though it is only partially true. I lay the jacket back in place and find his hand, guide it to the wound and help him apply pressure. “Where are the others?”
“Dead,” he grunts out. “Jesse and me took care of ’em.”
“Can you get up? We need to get you to the house.”
“Nah,” he says. “Leave me here.”
“What? No. Get up, Reece Murphy. You get up right now.”
“I don’t reckon I can.”
“That’s not fair. You don’t get to come this far and quit. Not when they’re all gone. Not when it’s your turn to finally live. You’re not supposed to die today.”
“Maybe I am.” His eyes roll a little. “Hey, Charlotte? I’m sorry ’bout everything.”
I can’t help it. I start crying. Because he’s right to apologize for some things, yet I don’t want him to feel this way. Not now. Not at the end.
“You think,” he continues, “that we mighta been friends in a different life? You and me?”
“We’re already friends in this one,” I tell him.
He manages a smile.