I flinch, drawing in a sharp breath. Holding it there, I listen hard.
Another sound. Lower. Rougher. Like someone choking. Then boots dragging, scuffling, stumbling across the floor. A second thud rattles the door.
Then stillness.
Nothing but the tick of the hall clock, the rasp of my own breath.
I raise my hand to the knob, then pull it back, heart galloping. I stand frozen in that silence, perspiration gathering on my nape, my mouth dry as cotton.
I wait—longer than I should—before my hand finds the knob again.
Chapter 8
KODIAK
Footsteps creak up the stairs and my heart kicks in my chest—not fear, but hunger. Same way a Kodiak watches an elk lower its head to drink. I sit, waiting, listening for the latch. Half hard already, thinking on looking that bastard in the eye as he takes his last breath.
The lace curtain breathes at the window, throwing patterns of light across the plaster. Plain brass bed under my wrist, five feet of chain hangs slack from the shackle to the footboard. The door eases open and in strolls that Sherman boy, puffed up like a show pony. Alice lingers behind him, trembling like a newborn fawn. Can’t help but crack a smile knowing she did her part just fine, nerves and all.
The bastard squares himself between me and the door, shutting it behind him.
“Mr. Randolph,” he says. “You look well.”
“No thanks to you.”
His mustache twitches, humorless. “Ordinarily, I would delegate such work to lesser men, but I’ve heard of your cunning. I could not risk you bribing some unfortunate soulwith promises of fortune. And now it seems you’ve fooled my wife into believing you have some hidden treasure. I knew it for nonsense the instant she spoke it, but I will not have you trifling with her, nor making sport of my household.”
Yet here he stands.
“Mr. Sherman,” I say, giving the yellow-bellied dog respect he don’t deserve, “whoever sent you, I reckon they paid top dollar. Whatever it is, I can do better.”
He studies a fingernail, exhales hard, weary-like. “Money is a poor motivator in my position. My family has no shortage. You have meddled in our affairs, and those of our esteemed associates in Kentucky. Train robbers such as yourself cannot be tolerated. It is a matter of honor, Mr. Randolph. Your death will not merely be an end, it will stand as a lesson.”
Bleeding out in the brush ain’t near as attention-grabbing as a noose.
“Honor, huh? Was it honor when your company men shot down every Shawnee over by Oleander spring? Spilled blood on holy ground just to throw up a fancy hotel? Or is it honor when you lay hands on that sweet-as-sugar wife of yours?”
That sparks a fire. He lifts his chin.
“I suppose my wife has sought your pity? As her husband, I may correct her as I see fit. I’ve no more time to waste, Mr. Randolph. My guests require me, and the law will see you disposed of soon enough.”
He offers a nod and goes to leave. Been waiting on this cocky bastard to turn his back. He only drops his guard for half a moment, but that’s all I need. I whip the chain up and over, iron whispering over brass, and set it clean under his jaw, right across the windpipe.
I yank him back till he’s flush against me. Bedframe screeches across the floorboards. “Here’s my fuckin’ correction.”
The terror in his soul kicks his heart up so fast I can feel it humming through him. He thrashes wild, swinging elbows, kicking back on his hinds like a spooked stallion. One catches me in the ribs sharp enough to sting. Pleases me some, knowing he’s spending his last breath on nothing. Every scrap of fight wasted against what’s already done.
We slam sideways into the washstand. Porcelain sings. The pitcher tips—water arcs and smacks the boards, running fast beneath his boots. He skids.
Dragging him down, I wrestle him to the floor easy. His fingers claw at his throat, desperate for so much as a hair of space between the bite of my chain and the skin turning red beneath. Mouth gapes wide to beg, to cry, but not a sound can break through.
Just as the strength drains out of him, I lean in close to his ear. “Don’t you fret ’bout Alice. Your wife is mine now, and I’ll keep her proper. While you’re rottin’ in the dirt, worms in your eyes, I’ll be fuckin’ her full, keepin’ her moanin’ my name, seein’ her belly swell with my young.”
My taunt gives him his last burst of fight. He jerks, froths from his lips, then goes limp. The rush of his life spilling out, of revenge under my hands, rips through me like release.
Silence takes the room.
Bed skewed off-square. Smell of cigar, wet wood, and iron thick in the air.
