protest at the gentle voice ringing through his ears.
“Ezra, wake up.”
His eyes fluttered open to a light far too bright, and he quickly squeezed them closed again. A callused hand rested against his cheek, gentle and warm.
“Wake up, partner. Don’t leave me just yet.”
Ezra finally recognized the owner of those whispered words, and he groaned again, fighting past the blinding light to open his eyes. He was in their room at the Continental, sprawled in the middle of the bed. Ambrose was sitting on the edge of the bed, and a portly man who was quite obviously a medical doctor was bustling around behind him. A time or two he actually walked through Ambrose because Ambrose refused to leave Ezra’s side, merely shivering when he did so and continuing on with what he was doing. Two constables stood near the door, watching silently.
“Howdy, Inspector,” Ambrose said, his voice rumbling.
“Hi,” Ezra gasped. It was hard to speak. He remembered the knife plunging in, remembered Ambrose leaping to his rescue. He began to tremble at the memory, the feeling of the blade near his spine, the terror in Ambrose’s eyes as he shouted his warning. He looked into Ambrose’s clear blue eyes and worked to push himself up. He didn’t care if the constables thought he was crazy when he spoke. “You saved me.”
Ambrose held his gaze for a few seconds before lowering his head as if ashamed. “No,” he whispered, “I didn’t.”
He gripped Ezra’s forearm tightly, helping him to sit up. Ezra stared at their clasped hands. Ambrose was solid and warm against him, his grip strong.
Ezra’s heart dropped. He twisted to look over his shoulder at the bed behind him, but Ambrose moved quickly and caught Ezra’s chin in his palm.
“Don’t look.” They locked eyes again. Fear skittered through Ezra’s entire body, but Ambrose tried to smile for him. He shook his head, his fingers brushing Ezra’s cheek. “Just don’t look.”
Breathing became harder. A white-hot pain started in his back and grew excruciating as it seared its way through his lungs and up into his throat. He squeezed his eyes closed against the panic, pain, and terror, and Ambrose’s hand slipped away.
He was still grasping for Ambrose when the hard ground seemed to rush up to meet him, and he landed on his back with a pained gasp. It took him long minutes to open his eyes, and when he did, he was staring into the gentle pink and star-speckled blue of the early morning. He could hear laughter not far off, the chilling, evil laughter from the night before, just after Ambrose had shot Boone Jennings.
He was in the street, the shadow of the gallows not far off. This was where Jennings had attacked them, where he’d been stabbed.
“Am I dead?” Ezra said out loud.
He glanced around the street, watching as merchants prepared their storefronts, as sleepy horses plodded along and wagons creaked toward the docks. No one paid him any mind even when he shouted at them.
He finally flopped his hands to his sides. “I’m dead. Well, shit.”
It took Ezra a long time to make his way back to the Continental Hotel. He’d been tempted to march straight to the gallows and kick Boone Jennings in his manhood, but he’d had an even greater need to get back to Ambrose, to let him know he hadn’t left him.
Walking through the streets, though, was like wading upstream through a creek. The further he got from the spot on the street where his blood still stained the dirt, the more exhausted he became. Had Ambrose fought this same level of exhaustion, walking with him all around town? Surely not, or Ambrose would have shown signs of fatigue. Perhaps it got easier to move around the longer someone was dead. Ezra certainly hoped so.
He finally came within sight of the Continental, and he stood staring at it in triumph, chest heaving as if air still moved through his lungs. A haughty little woman with a lace parasol was coming toward him, and he tipped his hat to
“Ezra, wake up.”
His eyes fluttered open to a light far too bright, and he quickly squeezed them closed again. A callused hand rested against his cheek, gentle and warm.
“Wake up, partner. Don’t leave me just yet.”
Ezra finally recognized the owner of those whispered words, and he groaned again, fighting past the blinding light to open his eyes. He was in their room at the Continental, sprawled in the middle of the bed. Ambrose was sitting on the edge of the bed, and a portly man who was quite obviously a medical doctor was bustling around behind him. A time or two he actually walked through Ambrose because Ambrose refused to leave Ezra’s side, merely shivering when he did so and continuing on with what he was doing. Two constables stood near the door, watching silently.
“Howdy, Inspector,” Ambrose said, his voice rumbling.
“Hi,” Ezra gasped. It was hard to speak. He remembered the knife plunging in, remembered Ambrose leaping to his rescue. He began to tremble at the memory, the feeling of the blade near his spine, the terror in Ambrose’s eyes as he shouted his warning. He looked into Ambrose’s clear blue eyes and worked to push himself up. He didn’t care if the constables thought he was crazy when he spoke. “You saved me.”
Ambrose held his gaze for a few seconds before lowering his head as if ashamed. “No,” he whispered, “I didn’t.”
He gripped Ezra’s forearm tightly, helping him to sit up. Ezra stared at their clasped hands. Ambrose was solid and warm against him, his grip strong.
Ezra’s heart dropped. He twisted to look over his shoulder at the bed behind him, but Ambrose moved quickly and caught Ezra’s chin in his palm.
“Don’t look.” They locked eyes again. Fear skittered through Ezra’s entire body, but Ambrose tried to smile for him. He shook his head, his fingers brushing Ezra’s cheek. “Just don’t look.”
Breathing became harder. A white-hot pain started in his back and grew excruciating as it seared its way through his lungs and up into his throat. He squeezed his eyes closed against the panic, pain, and terror, and Ambrose’s hand slipped away.
He was still grasping for Ambrose when the hard ground seemed to rush up to meet him, and he landed on his back with a pained gasp. It took him long minutes to open his eyes, and when he did, he was staring into the gentle pink and star-speckled blue of the early morning. He could hear laughter not far off, the chilling, evil laughter from the night before, just after Ambrose had shot Boone Jennings.
He was in the street, the shadow of the gallows not far off. This was where Jennings had attacked them, where he’d been stabbed.
“Am I dead?” Ezra said out loud.
He glanced around the street, watching as merchants prepared their storefronts, as sleepy horses plodded along and wagons creaked toward the docks. No one paid him any mind even when he shouted at them.
He finally flopped his hands to his sides. “I’m dead. Well, shit.”
It took Ezra a long time to make his way back to the Continental Hotel. He’d been tempted to march straight to the gallows and kick Boone Jennings in his manhood, but he’d had an even greater need to get back to Ambrose, to let him know he hadn’t left him.
Walking through the streets, though, was like wading upstream through a creek. The further he got from the spot on the street where his blood still stained the dirt, the more exhausted he became. Had Ambrose fought this same level of exhaustion, walking with him all around town? Surely not, or Ambrose would have shown signs of fatigue. Perhaps it got easier to move around the longer someone was dead. Ezra certainly hoped so.
He finally came within sight of the Continental, and he stood staring at it in triumph, chest heaving as if air still moved through his lungs. A haughty little woman with a lace parasol was coming toward him, and he tipped his hat to
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