no one to talk to and only the words in books to speak to him.
A gust slammed the door. Helena started and turned around. The fine hairs at her nape prickled, and she went to stand on the uneven porch. Snow came down harder, penetrating through the dense coverage of tree limbs in drifts. She brought her fingertips to her lips and thought of what to do next. Of where to look.
The lamented baying of a dog seeped through the murky dusk. The eerie cry carried on the wind and sent a sickly feeling winding its way through Helenaâs blood. She snatched up her hems and ran toward the howl. Branches snapped under her feet, and spindly twigs clawed at her cloak. A compound came into view. It was farther down from the cabin and leading away from town. She hadnât noticed the corral and shed before, having never gone this far. A strawberryroan and stocky bay grazed on the short grass in the enclosure, but Carrigan was nowhere in sight.
A spot of black moved, and Helena recognized Obsi. He sat on his hindquarters, his muzzle aimed heavenward, and let out a wail that tore her heart. Dread gripped Helena as she skidded to a stop, surprising the dog and making him bark and growl. But when he saw who she was, his lanky tail went between his legs, and he hung his head low. He dropped to all fours in front of a wide trough and put his chin on his paws. The long, stiff hairs above his eyes twitched as he followed her approach.
She was more afraid of what sheâd find on the other side of the trough than she was of Obsi. As the fearful images built in her mind, she began to shake. The closer she came, the more she could see. An impression of a prone man was cast in white by the sifting snow. She saw the legs, then the outline of a long coat and ample shoulders. She realized, with a shiver, it was Carrigan. He lay facedown, looking like a fallen statue and appearing to be just as cold as marble. She felt the color drain from her face, and wave after wave of shock hit her.
Dear Lord, he looked dead.
*Â Â *Â Â *
Carrigan couldnât move. A dreamless void spun its web about his senses, while the snowflakes wove a sheet over his conquered body. The report of a gunshot replayed inside his head, over and over. Its explosion was deafening, and the echo ringing in his ears seemed endless.
Vague awareness came upon him by degrees, and the pain in his side made him feel like heâd been shoved in a pyre for burial. He shuddered, wanting to clutch at his ribs, but not having the strength to even crook his finger. He couldnât see. Everything was dappled in white stabs of light amid a black canvas.
The thought flitted through his brain that he washeaded for the hereafter. No wonder he felt hot. The flames were licking at his heels.
He had to get his fingers on the âDoctorâ and do himself in. Death by a drawn-out decree wasnât for him. The revolver was the only way out. Only he couldnât move. He just couldnât grasp the implement that could put him out of his misery.
A womanâs voice broke into his realm of fire. So sweet and delicate and gentle, he ached. He knew who she was. . . .
Helena.
What was she doing here? A cruel joke sent from Lucifer? To give him the woman at his demise, and to make him want her even in his hour of death. She was talking to someone. The devil himself? If it was, Old Scratch had a Spanish accent.
Sudden spasms of pain took him, and he groaned with anguish, filling up the night with elaborate profanity. Hands held his legs and shoulders, jostling him onto a hard plank of wood. Goddammit! He wasnât dead yet and they were putting him in a stinking pine box! He raved like a maniac, threatening to shoot whoever was moving him but not having the capacity to draw his gun.
A soft palm touched his cheek, and he desperately tried to see her, but the confines of blackness shut him out. If only he could discern a shape . . . if only she would say
A gust slammed the door. Helena started and turned around. The fine hairs at her nape prickled, and she went to stand on the uneven porch. Snow came down harder, penetrating through the dense coverage of tree limbs in drifts. She brought her fingertips to her lips and thought of what to do next. Of where to look.
The lamented baying of a dog seeped through the murky dusk. The eerie cry carried on the wind and sent a sickly feeling winding its way through Helenaâs blood. She snatched up her hems and ran toward the howl. Branches snapped under her feet, and spindly twigs clawed at her cloak. A compound came into view. It was farther down from the cabin and leading away from town. She hadnât noticed the corral and shed before, having never gone this far. A strawberryroan and stocky bay grazed on the short grass in the enclosure, but Carrigan was nowhere in sight.
A spot of black moved, and Helena recognized Obsi. He sat on his hindquarters, his muzzle aimed heavenward, and let out a wail that tore her heart. Dread gripped Helena as she skidded to a stop, surprising the dog and making him bark and growl. But when he saw who she was, his lanky tail went between his legs, and he hung his head low. He dropped to all fours in front of a wide trough and put his chin on his paws. The long, stiff hairs above his eyes twitched as he followed her approach.
She was more afraid of what sheâd find on the other side of the trough than she was of Obsi. As the fearful images built in her mind, she began to shake. The closer she came, the more she could see. An impression of a prone man was cast in white by the sifting snow. She saw the legs, then the outline of a long coat and ample shoulders. She realized, with a shiver, it was Carrigan. He lay facedown, looking like a fallen statue and appearing to be just as cold as marble. She felt the color drain from her face, and wave after wave of shock hit her.
Dear Lord, he looked dead.
*Â Â *Â Â *
Carrigan couldnât move. A dreamless void spun its web about his senses, while the snowflakes wove a sheet over his conquered body. The report of a gunshot replayed inside his head, over and over. Its explosion was deafening, and the echo ringing in his ears seemed endless.
Vague awareness came upon him by degrees, and the pain in his side made him feel like heâd been shoved in a pyre for burial. He shuddered, wanting to clutch at his ribs, but not having the strength to even crook his finger. He couldnât see. Everything was dappled in white stabs of light amid a black canvas.
The thought flitted through his brain that he washeaded for the hereafter. No wonder he felt hot. The flames were licking at his heels.
He had to get his fingers on the âDoctorâ and do himself in. Death by a drawn-out decree wasnât for him. The revolver was the only way out. Only he couldnât move. He just couldnât grasp the implement that could put him out of his misery.
A womanâs voice broke into his realm of fire. So sweet and delicate and gentle, he ached. He knew who she was. . . .
Helena.
What was she doing here? A cruel joke sent from Lucifer? To give him the woman at his demise, and to make him want her even in his hour of death. She was talking to someone. The devil himself? If it was, Old Scratch had a Spanish accent.
Sudden spasms of pain took him, and he groaned with anguish, filling up the night with elaborate profanity. Hands held his legs and shoulders, jostling him onto a hard plank of wood. Goddammit! He wasnât dead yet and they were putting him in a stinking pine box! He raved like a maniac, threatening to shoot whoever was moving him but not having the capacity to draw his gun.
A soft palm touched his cheek, and he desperately tried to see her, but the confines of blackness shut him out. If only he could discern a shape . . . if only she would say
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