Red seeped from the bullet hole; the haunting coil of crimson trailed along his forehead and plopped onto the dirt.
This land was gutted of its history. It had felt like everything was beginning again. Now anguish and death sank into the soil. Now I had more secrets to bury below ashes.
Cayenne pepper smeared around the eyes of the man who’d tried to rape me, into his hairline, down his cheeks. His face had lost its tension. Wobbly lines, the tracks of tears, streaked through the red smudge. How could someone force their evil on others? Greed, desire, want—those compulsions permeated this race. But there was something distinctbetween my ambition and theirs. I wanted something of my own, while these men wanted to steal and destroy. Already the battles over land were more brutal than I’d imagined. And yet I still longed to continue, to build a life on the frontier, to remake this world into my own.
I stepped forward and shot the rapist in the head for good measure. The black hole was stark against the chalky smear of cayenne.
My legs wobbled. My ankles spasmed. I threw his gun aside.
I wanted to crumple into the cinders, take comfort from the earth, from anywhere, but I must dispose of the bodies. I could burn them, as smoke wouldn’t be conspicuous today, or I could bury them in that woodland. Across my land, the wind stirred up dust: White and black flecks fizzled in the rolling fog. A wave rumbled underfoot. I bent and dug through the coals to check for an oncoming stampede. The ground was warm and soft. A thump, like a pulse pumping blood through the land, struck my finger pads. The beat felt ancient. Something hidden under groundcover and soil, sunk deep in the memory of the earth.
I fell to the ground, gripped my forehead. I was woozy and shaken, my body stuck between turmoil and survival. The rhythm throbbed, a clattering like thunder. That wasn’t a stampede, wasn’t my land communicating—
Hoofbeats.
I clawed through the bluestem to clasp my pistol. I aimed my six-shooter northward, scrutinized the haze. This time I’d shoot. I’d already battled a wildfire and slain two men—I’d do whatever I must to protect this land.
The hoofbeats were just beyond the rise. I prayed that my bones would stay steady enough that I wouldn’t spiral beyond my body.
Chapter Six
Aman charged over the rise, his shoulders leaning into the charcoal vapors. A shudder clawed up my body as I gazed down the barrel of my Peacemaker. My hands shook, palms slippery, calves tight and watery. I rubbed my handkerchief on my skin, wiping off ash and sweat and viscera. A dingy vermilion smear shadowed the hollow of my palm. It wouldn’t erase. My throat felt stuffed, as if my body held back a scream. I didn’t know how I’d ever move on, let alone face this next calamity. But I must. There was no other choice.
Wind shattered across the plain, saltgrass tossed in disarray, the cowboy dashing over the smoldering prairie, the world moving too fast, while I felt frozen in time. Soot clouded before me—I swatted away fragments and thought of a moment from long ago. I’d been perhaps nine, out in the south pasture, Magnolia off aways gathering dewberries, when a man had crept from between a strand of bitternut hickories. I’d reached for the rifle slung across my back, ill ease weaving up my neck. I’d screamed, the shrill rasp of my voice snapping across our farmland. The man had scrambled away, his stride tilted, his expression peculiar. In moments, Pa had swept up on his tobiano mare.Sweetheart, what’s wrong?After I’d told him, he hadn’t made me feel foolish, instead had reminded me to always trust my gut. Today Pa was faraway.
The gunslinger cut through the fog, only a few rods before me. He sharpened into focus, and I faltered backward.The Lawman.
“This is my land,” I said, determined to sound strong and in control.
The Lawman glanced at the cowboys. The wind whipped, funneling onyx fragments around his form. His gaze slid to mine. “Clearly.”
“I will kill you.”
He swung from his mustang, boots echoing along the lowland. I cocked my gun, fingers wooden. The Lawman pressed his fingertips against the drunk’s pallid wrist, his gaze snagging on the cowboy’s loose britches. His scowl deepened. Unbothered by the pistol I trained on his body, the Lawman strode through the haze to check the other man. He didn’t seem surprised or rattled by the carnage, his preternatural ease chilling.
I should shoot. Coal-black and fog-white remains dusted my hands; cardamom and ruby smeared across my fist. The Lawman hadn’t threatened me. Killing him would be murder, plain as day.
He turned, palms raised, and slowly advanced toward me. “You okay?” His voice, low and thick, like clogged honey or sarsaparilla syrup.
I sank my teeth into my lip, kept the barrel trained on him. The Lawman took off his hat, scraped his fingers through his hair. It was a warm black, as if the sunlight had been only brave enough to barely brush the strands. His hair waved and tufted around the bones of his face.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He looked northward, squinted, the muscles on his neck taut. “I claimed the one-sixty just north.”
The hell-fired gunfighter was my neighbor? Well, damn.
“I informed you this creek is mine,” I said.
“Don’t think you can claim the all of it.”
“Maybe,” I said, narrowing my eyes.
He flexed his fingers, as if trying to appear less intimidating. He didn’t realize: I’d learned, long ago, to trust no one. Folks would either fail you—or betray you. That was just the way the world spun.
The Lawman pressed on his hat, adjusting its position by the crown. “Heard the shots.”
All nature, of course others would’ve heard. Wouldn’t be long until someone else galloped up. I scanned the smoky horizons. I must dispose of the bodies, straightaway.
“What will you do now?” the Lawman asked.
