Frieda stepped from the bank. One foot landed in the canoe, one in the water. The canoe tipped sideward, spilling her into the river. He jumped into the frigid water, righting the boat and shoving her onto the bank. Every second was an unaffordable loss. He heaved himself over the edge, then from asquat, held out his arms and braced her as she stepped from the bank. The canoe rocked as she boarded.
“Halt.” Someone crashed through the underbrush.
Devon grabbed the paddle and struck wood to water. “Lie down,” he commanded Frieda.
She crouched.
A shot struck the wooden side, splintering the wood. Then another winged his sleeve.
If they wounded or killed him, they’d get her too. If he turned himself in and bought her time?—
Another shot grazed the wood.
“I give up. Don’t shoot.” He threw the paddle down and lifted his hands. “Don’t shoot.”
“Don’t.” She stirred.
“Try anything, and I’ll put a bullet in your back.” Moyer’s voice boomed.
“Stay still,” he hissed to Frieda. “You can swim, right? When I get up, I’m going to tip the canoe. I’ll swim for shore. You keep swimming with the river, underwater and in the shadows. They’ll chase me?—”
“No.” Horror gripped her words.
“You. Do. It.” He pushed his arms higher. “Standing,” he called to Moyer and the noose.
Moyer thrashed through the cattails, moving closer along the shore. “Wait.”
Dear God, help us.Devon stood. The canoe wobbled.
“I’ll shoot?—”
Devon lunged to the far side. The canoe flipped. Gunfire. A sting to his ear. He slugged toward the shore, pumping his wavering limbs, swimming with everything he had left.
He swallowed water, coughed it out, forcing himself forward. Had the shots stopped, or had he gone deaf again? His hands struck reeds, and he pulled himself up. Maybe he should just hover. No, they’d seen him. They’d be coming. He drughimself onto the bank. He had to get up, keep going, keep them coming after him and not Frieda.
He pushed up on all fours.
A fist hammered the side of his head. He dropped to the ground. A boot slammed into his ribs. He curled inward, slipping his hand inside his boot for the knife.
Moyer kicked it from his hand and dove in with his fists until all light faded.
CHAPTER 31
Light poured in through the attic window. Morning Fawn never wanted to move again. Her mouth tasted like cotton. She hated cotton. That’s what Devon had come here to destroy. Risked his life for. Had he died for it? Or was that still to come?
She rolled over and curled into a ball. She had failed him. The realization ricocheted through her. She should have told him about Thea being awake that night they’d been in the kitchen. She should have gotten away last night and led them on a wild goose chase south. If only she’d moved a little quicker, fought a little harder.
Her stomach clenched. She scrambled off the bare mattress, dropped to her knees, and emptied the dregs of her stomach into the chamber pot. The result of the laudanum which they’d shoved down her throat or guilt? Either way, she swiped her mouth on her torn skirt and hung her head.
Replacing the lid, she shoved the pot back under the bed and curled toward her lap. Devon had trusted her. Now he was either dead or in jail with no hope but a noose.
Flashes of memory burst through her clogged brain.Shouts around dawn. Her uncle had returned and who else? LeBeau had thrown open her door and shook his fist. “We got him. We got him. We got the mangy-hide, bloodsucking Yankee you sold your soul to. Moyer put a bullet in him. Beat him to a pulp.”
Later, he’d burst into her room again, and someone else had grabbed her. Owens? They’d torn the room apart, ripping off the bedding, overturning her chair and desk, everything a mess, scouring the place for any secrets. LeBeau had waved the journal in her face.
He’d said more. What? It didn’t matter. They had Devon. Wounded and bloodied and in pain. How seriously had he been shot? If he survived, they’d execute him. Her heart had caved in.
Sobs rocked through her. Her fault. She should have never followed him that day. Stayed away. Stayed out of it. Her and her big mouth. Her and her jealousy. The hours in the garden, in his arms, sharing their hearts. The kiss that had swept her to heaven and back. The kitchen…that first night when he’d come to her room and promised her the moon…his friendship, his love…lost.
