Had Kennisaw Jones managed to escape them? Even if he had, she had seen something in his pursuers' faces that warned her the kind man could not elude them forever.
The thought made the hair at her nape prickle, and she clasped the Hawkin tighter in an effort to still the sudden tremor in her hands.
What would the outlaws do if they were robbed of their prize? Would they circle back? Attempt to find the woman who had stalled them in their chase? Would they hold her somehow responsible for their failure in finding Jones?
A sudden shifting sound behind Ash made her jump to her feet, a croak of fear rising in her throat. But after a second she recognized the sound she had heard countless times since they had sailed away from Ireland—Renny, restless even in sleep, clunking one of his long limbs into a wall as he thrashed about in the throes of some dream.
She let out a shuddery sigh of relief, a rueful smile curving her lips as she shook her head in self-disgust. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Mary Ashleen O'Shea!" she scolded herself, sagging back against the wagon box. "You're worse than the children, spinning scare-stories in the darkness until the whole world seems crawling with monsters. There is nothing to be afraid of. Nothing."
She started to sit down again, but at that moment a sound out of synch with the night drifted to her, a kind of soft, rasping sound, as if someone or something was creeping.
Her heart froze as she wheeled around, the heavy Hawkin weighing her hands, her trembling finger on the trigger.
Eyes glowed in the pools of inky blackness, reflecting the light of the flames. Ash dragged the rifle to her shoulder, trying to steady it, knowing she should shoot. But suddenly a faint moan rippled out.
Pain. Ash could sense it, feel it.
Terrified but unable to stop herself, she hurried toward the sound, the circle of light from the campfire waning until she, too, was swallowed up by the night.
Her hands were damp with sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs as she edged closer to where she had heard the sound. The glittering she had judged to be the creature's eyes had vanished as though in a grimace of agony, even the moans fading into silence.
"Who—who is it?" She tried to keep her voice from shaking. "Who's there?"
No answer.
Visions of renegade Indians, marauding bears, and a dozen other terrifying possibilities filled her imagination. Mary, Mother of God, what was she doing? Trundling off into the darkness in the middle of nowhere, searching for who knew what? The children lay asleep in the wagon, so vulnerable it made Ash's stomach lurch. And even if she screamed to high heaven, there was no one else to hear her.
She should turn around, rush back to the relative safety of the campfire, and wait, gun in hand, until dawn revealed whatever had made those awful sounds. If something should happen to her, the little ones would be left alone in the middle of the wilderness, in a strange land. They would have nothing, no one....
She took another step, deeper into the inky darkness.
"Sister Ashleen?" The wavering, fearful call tore a cry from her throat, made her spin toward the campfire. She lowered the Hawkin, horrified at her shaky fingers, as her gaze fixed upon the small figure silhouetted against the flames.
Liam leaned upon his crutch near the tailgate of the wagon, looking like a wandering ghost in his little nightshirt, his hair tousled about his small face. "S-Sister Ash?"
"Liam, I'm out—out here," she called softly. "I heard a noise."
Something seemed to erupt from the bowels of the earth, clutching at her skirt.
She screamed, attempting to pull away, the heavy rifle all but useless at such an angle. But as she whirled to face her assailant horror ripped through her.
Even in the meager light from the campfire she could make out the raggedy shape of a wild mane of hair, the burly shoulders and thick arms she recognized as those of Kennisaw Jones.
"Don't... shoot, girlie." The voice was faint, garbled. "I... surrender."
"Mr. Jones... what..." she dropped the rifle and sank to her knees beside him, her fingers closing about his hand—a hand that was wet, sticky. She recoiled inwardly, smelling the sickly sweet stench of blood. "What are you doing here? Are you... You're hurt."
"Should’ve... seen the other... hombres." A weak laugh faded. An awful, watery-sounding cough rumbled deep in the man's chest, racking his big body.
"Liam! Get Renny!" Ash cried out. "It's Mr. Jones—hurt. I need help to get him into camp."
Ash cradled the big man's head in her lap, feeling the shudders of pain working through him.
She heard the commotion from the wagon behind, heard running feet pounding toward her. Renny's anxious, sleep-blurred eyes peered down into hers, his hunting knife gripped in one hand as if to defend her.
"Renny, put that thing away. We have to get Mr. Jones to the wagon."
"Mr. Jones? But why... how..."
