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After the Ashes(106)

By:Cheryl Howe


“You listen to me when I’m talking. You know how to write?”

She couldn’t answer. His words didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

He squeezed her arms. “You know how to write?”

She blinked. “Yes,” she said, relieved she could answer in the affirmative. He might kill her if she said no.

He whipped her around. “Good. ’Cause we’re going to leave your brother a message before we go.” With a bone crunching grip on her forearm he dragged her to Archie’s body, which lay sprawled, flat on its back, a knife sticking from the center of the chest. Blood stained his shirtfront a slick, shiny red. A pink cloud swirled, then dispersed as Archie’s life drained down the shallow stream.

The man held her as he leaned forward to retrieve the knife. She unconsciously tugged away, unable to look any closer. He yanked her with greater force, sending her to her knees beside Archie.

“You get a good look, girl. You give me a second of trouble and that’s what you’ll look like.” He came down behind her. A firm grip on her shoulder kept her on her knees.

“Let’s see here.” He swayed to grab something on his left. “This will do.”

He handed her a twisted twig less than six inches long. “Just dip that into his blood and we’ll leave your brother a message that will tell him we ain’t messing around.”

She held the stick in her right hand, unable to follow his request. Hot tears stung her cheeks before she realized she was crying. She was afraid to refuse him, yet feared she couldn’t comply with his request no matter how grave the consequences.

“Oh, come on. He’s dead already. It ain’t going to hurt him.” He grabbed her wrist that held the twig and forced her to stick the end in the puckered wound in Archie’s chest. She turned her head away and closed her eyes.

“Now get it good and bloody. I want my message to be real clear.”

He jerked her in another direction. “Come on. Open your eyes. You got to write.”

She did and was grateful she was staring at a patch of dirt. If she kept her gaze averted, she couldn’t even see Archie.

“What should I write?” she asked, surprised that she still had a voice at all.

“Ricochet. That’s all. He’ll know what that means.”

***



Braddock rode into Jay’s silent homestead with the devil on his heels. Both pistols were drawn before his feet hit the ground. Keeping low, he made his way to the side of the house, flattened himself against a spot free from the window’s view, and waited and listened. He should have left Lucky far from the house and approached on foot. Thinking clearly hadn’t been an option. Getting to Lorelei had been driving him ever since he left Specter Canyon.

Braddock’s heavy breathing was the only sound that filled the yard. Maybe he had beaten Ricochet here. Or maybe he was too late and they were all already dead. Ricochet had already murdered a dozen or so hardened criminals, his own friends. Killing women and children and a man who’d lost a leg would hardly make him break a sweat.

He should have known Archie would return with trouble. Either he’d brought Ricochet here in a drunken stupor or the outlaw had just followed him. Archie would have started drinking once he arrived at Mulcahy’s hideout, if only to show the gang he was still a harmless drunk. And once the alcohol touched his lips, it would be all over. Archie was a talkative drunk.

Braddock slid along the planked wall and peeked in the kitchen window. The sight of plates still on the table, food left unwrapped to spoil, scared him more than if he had seen Ricochet holding a knife to Lorelei’s throat. That, he could fight. The sense that he was too late, that the curse had won its biggest victory yet, squeezed the breath from his throat.

And Braddock had played right into the curse’s hands. He had ordered Lorelei to stay at the ranch. All the while, death and destiny had been rushing forward to meet her. Braddock pushed away from the house. He should have known.

He had known. He had killed Lorelei as surely as if he had done it with his bare hands. How many had to die before he figured it out? The curse would always be with him. He lived by sucking the life out of everyone around him.

He strode to the barn, no longer making any attempt at stealth. He wanted to be seen. Needed something to fight. He stopped suddenly, a step away from obliterating a trail of footprints. A churned patch of dirt narrowed into the shape of boots and the smaller prints of a woman as it wound around the barn. Lorelei.

By the size of the booted feet, he guessed the man to be close to his own height. Not Ricochet, but probably Archie. Braddock fought the urge to follow the prints in a mad dash. The trail was still distinct. But the dry, windless day made placing an accurate time on them impossible.