Laird turned to find Donell’s eyes upon him. The old man was alive. In need of aid. Laird took a step in his direction, but Donell held up a hand. “Nay, beware lad.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Laird saw Jameson reaching across the floor for his gun. Before he could take another step, pain more agonizing than he’d thought possible bombarded him. Ravaged his chest. Seized his lungs.
Laird looked down at the ruby stain.
Nay, the bastard could not win.
Pulling Rhys’s dagger from his belt once more, Laird hurled it toward Jameson. Watched it sink into his throat. Blood gushed around the hilt.
He’d accomplished what he’d come to do. Jameson was dead. Their mission done. The future secured. He’d succeeded.
Yet he’d failed. Failed in his promise to keep themallsafe. Now Connor lay dying.
Soon he would follow. Laird’s life was already leeching away. His hands cold, muscles weakening.
Never would he see Scarlett again. Hold his true love in his arms knowing his life was complete. He would die without knowing Scarlett’s fate, what would become of her and his daughters. He mourned for them, his beloveds.
Darkness washed over him but just before oblivion took hold, Laird thought he heard Scarlett scream his name.
Scarlett
A split second after Scarlett fell beneath the curtain of white, it cleared. She was still at the open motel room door. However, the scene currently before her was nothing like the one she’d left. Bodies lay everywhere. Emmy huddled on the far side of the bed. Donell, Jameson. Blood all over. Laird standing over them.
How had that happened?
Then Laird sank to his knees, keeled over holding his chest.
“Laird!” With a horrified cry, she sprinted to his side.
She took his hand, holding it tight. There was so much blood. Everywhere. “What have you done?” she screamed at Donell.
“Lass, ye’re alive,” Laird croaked. His hand tightened around hers. “Thank God. I dinnae ken where Donell had sent ye. I was afraid…” A groan of pain choked whatever he meant to say and Scarlett checked him over, unsure what to do. So much blood. Panic reverberated through her. “Mo chroí…I’m sorry.”
“No, no, no, no. Laird…please, just hold on!”
What should she do?
“Emmy,” she cried. “Emmy, help me!”
A sob as heartbroken as any she’d ever heard was her only answer. No other sound but Emmy’s weeping. Each sniffle followed by a low keening, “No-o-o.”
“Emmy?” Scarlett twisted around and saw Connor sprawled on the floor next to Emmy. His chest as bloody as Laird’s. His body just as still.
Dread clawed at her throat. She turned back to Laird and patted his cheek. “Laird. Laird! Come on. Open your eyes.”
His eyelids fluttered then stilled. “Mo chroí…”
“No. Don’t do this. Come on,” she begged, her voice breaking until the last word was almost inaudible.
With one last long, slow exhale, his breath escaped him.
Scarlett stared dumbfounded at his chest. Waiting for it to rise again. To move.
It didn’t.
“Laird?” she whispered desperately. She clutched his lifeless hand, then harder. Folded his fingers around hers, urging them to curl of their own will.
But they did not.
