Chapter 21
Abbie woke with a raging headache and an even angrier temperament.
Following her initial fury came terror. Wilder had been shot in the back by that low-life bastard, Bart Mercer, and she had no idea if he was dead or alive.
He’d come all this way for her, from their timeline.
And if his actions didn’t make her love him more than she already did, she would’ve fallen hard because of his kindness to an injured outcast.
She gasped, nearly choking to death on the stinky material in her mouth as she angled to remove it.
“I remember,” she whispered. “Oh my God, Wilder, I remember.”
Could he read her mind from whatever distance separated them? She prayed his silence was only their parting and not the more dire explanation of his death.
Her good eye burned from the sudden onslaught of moisture.
For two solid years, she’d been in the dark, and for the last three months of it, her brain was little better than Swiss cheese. How had it repaired itself? Certainly not the knockout, right? Had it shaken a bone fragment loose?
And Wilder hadn’t moved on. He’d been steadfast in his love, and adding to his dedication, he’d traveled to this godforsaken place to save her.
Along with a man claiming to be her father.
She and Castor were related. There was no denying their hair color and eye shape.
But her mother had said Abbie’s father was a man named Alex Collins.
Why lie? Who had she been protecting? And if Mama had told the truth as she knew it, then it meant he’d fed her false information from the start. Again, why?
Movement beneath her sank into Abbie’s consciousness, as did the oppressive air under the thick cover brushing her face with every sway of her transportation. Turning on her side, she felt around in the dark: wood, dirt, or grain—hard to tell—and a fuzzy item as large as her foot.
It squeaked when she touched it, and she choked back a scream.
Dear Goddess, don’t let it be a rat!
Another something, long and skinny, dragged over her wrist as the creature scurried away.
A tail. Definitely a tail!
She added horror to her list of uncontrolled emotions. Did rats in the late 1800s carry plague? At the very least, they’d have a nasty bite.
If only she had Wilder’s cousin’s ability to talk to animals, then maybe she could have it gnaw through her bindings.
Wait! According to him, she was now a witch, possessing potent powers, like a Traveler. Even the term seemed badass. The ability to manipulate time? Her? It didn’t seem real. Perhaps it wasn’t. Maybe her mind hadn’t survived all the traumas she’d suffered during her stay in Perdition Ridge.
The Devil’s Backbone.
It certainly was.
Not a day went by when some lowlife didn’t try to harm her. If it hadn’t been for the kindness of Draven, Jonas, Red, and Gus, she would likely be dead or bartering sex for food and lodging.
She shuddered.
No one had touched her in a romantic way since her last night with Wilder. He’d been tender, yet fierce, as if he couldn’t get enough. And she’d reciprocated, giving him her all as she drank in his passion.
The wagon drew to a halt, and her fear returned, doubling. Bart had one intention, and it wasn’t good.
Abbie redoubled her efforts to free herself, working the knots at her wrists with her teeth, but they held, much to her frustration. It stood to reason a shopkeeper would know how to tie his merchandise.
Her fingers brushed Draven’s bracelet.
Could she teleport if she removed it? In the past, she couldn’t, but she’d been frantic, blinded by panic. Examining it by feel, she searched for a clasp.
Nothing but smooth silver.
Her memory was of the sides coming together and fusing into a single band. But it was once hinged, which meant it could be opened again. What would it take? A calm mind? The trick seemed right up Draven’s alley, the wily fox.
She struggled to remember the day he clamped it on her arm.
“It’s for your protection, ma chère. Your well-being is your key. When your mind est guéri, I will know, and the lock, it will open.”
Her healed mind.
That’s it!
Somehow, she had to convince this chunk of metal she was well. The question was, how did one go about making an inanimate object understand?
“Please,” she whispered, lightly caressing metal. “My mind is whole.”
It warmed but remained solid, indicating she was riding the right trail, even if it forked.
“Draven Masters, you remove this shackle immediately,” she hissed.
Nothing. Nada. Not even a fizzle.
Damn him!
Teleporting was out, which was probably a good thing since she didn’t know how to do it properly anyway. What was she left with? Could she shock Bart if he touched her? Perhaps she was a human defibrillator, capable of stopping his heart? Wouldn’t that be a bonus!
Thirty minutes later, the tarp was pulled back, and her rat friend bolted, scaring a curse from him. His shout fed the evil part of her soul, wishing him to the real Perdition.
“Those good-for-nothings! They were supposed to clean this wagon bed,” he grumbled, holding his lantern higher and presumably checking the buckboard for additional critters before snuffing out the flame.
The dusky light was fading as the sun crested the horizon, but they still rested in the shadow of a canyon.
“Just can’t get good help these days,” Abbie replied in a chipper tone she didn’t feel. Her throat, though tight, didn’t pain her as it had before when speaking. A fact she’d discovered earlier with Wilder.
Other than to stare at her with suspicion, Bart remained unmoving.
“Cat got your tongue?” she sneered, rolling to a sitting position.
“Were you fakin’ the whole time, girl?”
She grinned, and despite the painful tug of skin, she maintained it. The grotesque mask would give him a nice chill. Let him believe she was capable of anything.
“Get on out of there. We’re walkin’ the rest of the way.”
Remaining stationary, Abbie glanced around. The landscape she could see wasn’t familiar in the least.
“What about the horses? Won’t they die without water?” she asked with faux innocence.
Perhaps, if he intended to take them, she could steal one and get away. Though she didn’t know which way they’d come or what direction she should head if she did manage an escape, she would take her chances.
“They’ll head back to town.”
Good to know. It meant if she gave the beast its head, it might take her straight back to Wilder.
“I said, get down from there, girl. Are ya hard of hearin’ as well as dumb?”
“Watch your tone, Bartholomew. I’ve had about enough of asshole men.” Her frigid tone left little doubt the needle on her bullshit meter had reached the red.
He drew his pistol and aimed.
Okay, bluff called, and all chips were firmly on his side of the table.
Gus knew the route to the caves by heart, and with the moon as bright as it was, his horse was able to effortlessly pick its way across the desert terrain.
Ahead, the steady golden glow disappeared, suggesting Bart snuffed out the lantern due to the rising sun.
Likely, they’d need to walk the rest of the way since only horses could manage the narrow trail head.
But if Mary was still unconscious, Bart wouldn’t be moving her any time soon.
Their slowdown worked in Gus’s favor.
Only when he was three-quarters of the way did second thoughts intrude.
He wasn’t fast in a gunfight, and it might see him dead.
Regret for leaving Mary’s man to suffer was also weighing heavy.
He prayed a kind soul saw their way to helping him and didn’t leave him to bleed out on the boardwalk.
If Gus managed to rescue her, would she be sore at him for not saving her guy?
He hoped not. She was the reason he tried to be better. Not just to impress her, but to earn her respect. Deep down, in the far reaches of her broken mind, she remembered all he’d done to help her. He was sure of it.
“I’m comin’ for ya, Mary,” he promised.
As Gus drew closer, he could make out the outline of Bart and Mary. Should he shoot the merchant in the back? He risked hitting her from here. Anxiety caused his heart to hammer and him to miss the pounding hooves of the Silver City Gang until they were upon him.
Five riders circled him, leaving no doubt as to the trouble they were about to heap on his head.
“What do we have here, fellas?” drawled Silas Hastings as he drew up. He shifted in the saddle, resting his forearms on the pommel and loosely holding the reins in his gloved hands.
“Looks like Harlan’s kid, boss,” Jennings replied uselessly.
Gus was as familiar with these outlaws as they were with his pa. They’d all colluded at some point.
“Heard you went straight, Green,” Silas said, ignoring his main henchman and pinning Gus with a snakelike stare. “Working for Sheriff Thorne. Ain’t that right, boys?”
A chorus of confirmation chilled Gus’s blood. No way was he getting out alive. He was doubly sad he hadn’t saved Mary’s man for her. Without him around, she would need someone else to look after her.
“Nobody likes a rat, Green,” Silas stated coldly. “And I’ll be damned if you ain’t the biggest one around.”
“I ain’t never told on you or did you no harm, Mr. Hastings. You know that.”
“What do we do with rats, fellas?”
“We shoot them in the head,” Royal Hastings supplied, as if bored to be there. “But the boy’s right, Si. He’s never harmed any of us. And pulling the wings off butterflies ain’t sporting when we have a job to do.”
Silas’s considering gaze shifted from Gus to Royal and back again. “Seems my brother likes you, Green. What do you say to that?”
“Mr. Royal is a fine man,” he said, unknowing if it was true or not. He lifted his chin. “But maybe I can help you. About that job and all.”
Though his mouth curled, Silas’s eyes were void of humor. “Is that right?”
Gus shot a glance at Royal. His heavy sigh and eye roll said Gus just stepped in it. Seems he screwed up right proper by offering his services.
“Well, sure. Maybe.” He did his damnedest to hold back a stammer. “If I can, that is.”
To Silas’s right, Jennings smirked, probably already knowing how this confrontation would go.
“What are you doing out here, Green?” Royal asked. “Aren’t you far from home?”
No way was he going to give Mary away. Dealing with Bart was dangerous enough. These men would use her poorly and, when done, shoot her full of holes for the fun of it.
“I’m looking for the sheriff’s injun friend,” he lied.
But his flush gave him away, and the pity in Royal’s eyes was uncomfortable.
“Hear that, boss? We got us a two-fer-one this fine mornin’!” Jennings crowed.
“I’m not deaf, you half-wit,” Silas growled.
Although Jenning’s cheeks reddened, he wisely held his tongue, making him more of a three-quarter-wit to Gus’s way of thinking.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Hastings, I’ll be goin’, sir.” Gus gestured to the canyon. “Gonna see if Stands-in-Shadow is hangin’ around and tell him Sheriff Thorne’s lookin’ for him, if he is.”
“Don’t let us stop you, Green.” Silas straightened, tightening his rein and spinning his horse in the direction Gus had pointed. “As a matter of fact, why don’t we help with your search?”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your help, Mr. Hastings, but I wouldn’t wanna take you away from your job, and all.”
“It’s no trouble. We noticed the merchant has new goods to sell, and my friend Morcant here is feeling peckish.”
Gus turned his attention to the thin man on Silas’s left.
A thin, cruel mouth worked in conjunction with the sharp, beak-like nose, thin-set eyes, and pallid skin, giving him a gruesome appearance.
If vicious had a look, it belonged to Morcant.
Though the man couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Gus, he had an aged quality, as if he knew too much.
And it seemed the more nervous Gus grew, almost certain of death, the man’s eyes glowed with an unholy glee.
As hard as he tried, he couldn’t break the mesmerizing hold.
“Lead on, Green,” Royal barked, causing Gus to blink and return to himself.
Why did he suddenly feel sweatier and weaker? “I’m not so great. Maybe I’ll head on back to town and talk to Doc.”
“You’ll ride toward that canyon if you know what’s good for you, boy,” Silas replied, unmistakable menace in his voice. “Start moving.”