The Edge of Hell: The Mitchell Brothers Series Book One

8

Wolstan stood paralyzed, speechless, unable to breathe.

Declan was lying to direct anger away from Mae, Wolstan reassured himself—just as he'd seen his brother do in defense of others thousands of times over the years.

It was the only thing that made any sense.

But then Declan kept talking and making everything worse.

"Five of us chased you through the forest that night." Declan gripped Wolstan by his shoulders and gave him a quick, hard shake. "Only I didn't see Daddy's rifle until it was too late."

Tears gathered in Declan's eyes and thickened his voice as he continued, "I'm the one that knocked you out. I'm the one that put your unconscious body in the wagon with the prisoners... the others wanted to kill you, you damn fool. Do you understand that? It was prison or death; I did what I had to, so you at least stood a chance. And I'd make the same decision again."

Wolstan stared at his brother as hurt, betrayal, and white-hot rage coalesced in the pit of his stomach. It unfurled throughout his limbs like a great tentacled beast growing stronger with every breath, demanding vengeance.

"You should have let them kill me," he snarled, ramming his right fist into Declan's stomach, followed by his left into his brother's face.

In a matter of seconds, Wolstan and Declan were punching, kicking, and elbowing one another as hard as possible. Declan even attempted to use his crutch as a weapon twice without success, and both men ignored Emmaline's pleading cries to stop before someone got killed.

Emerson stepped in and tried to break them apart but received an errant fist to his right cheek from Declan for his efforts and was sent sprawling backward, nearly toppling over the railing.

Several moments later, when Declan tried kneeing Wolstan in the gut, Luella joined the fray and sent both men crashing to the ground with Wolstan on top.

The unmistakable snap of bone breaking, instantly followed by Declan's blood-curdling scream, pierced through Wolstan's haze of fury. Too late, he realized, he'd taken matters too far.

Chest heaving with labored breaths, Wolstan wiped blood and sweat from his eyes and scrambled off his brother. A deluge of shame flooded his being.

"Damn fools," Emerson muttered, nudging Wolstan aside as he knelt next to Declan. "Where are you hurt?"

"My right leg," Declan cried, his face and lips ashen, tears streaming down his cheeks, and his eyes full of agony.

"Mae, fetch my medical bag out of my carriage—it's under the seat," Emerson ordered, ignoring Declan's pained groans while he silently examined the leg from knee to ankle. A moment later, he muttered his thanks when Mae ran up the front steps and set the bag on the floor next to him.

Flicking the latch up with his thumb, he pulled it open, retrieved a pair of scissors, then cut Declan's right trouser leg, exposing Declan's battle-scarred limb. "It's as I feared," he said, meeting Declan's gaze, "your leg is broken, and a portion of the bone has pierced the skin—"

Declan grabbed Emerson by his shirt and tearfully growled, "You're not cutting it off."

"I may not have a choice—"

"Promise me, Uncle Em," Declan pleaded.

Emerson hesitated, settling his hands atop Declan's, then nodded. "You have my word."

Declan's panicked gaze studied his uncle's for several moments before his grip on Emerson's shirt relaxed.

Turning to Wolstan, Emerson said, "Help me carry him inside—you take his shoulders; I'll grab his legs."