The Edge of Hell: The Mitchell Brothers Series Book One

19

Wolstan helped Emerson to his feet, then turned his attention to Cyrus galloping into the distance, beyond frustrated he was getting away.

Groaning and testing his jaw, Emerson holstered his pistol and brushed at the clumps of mud on his trousers. "Next time I decide to play by your mama's rules and try to be civil with the likes of Cyrus Buchanan, how about one of you smack me upside the head."

"Sure thing, Uncle Em," Declan replied with a broad smile as he rested the length of the rifle barrel on his right shoulder. "With pleasure."

Emerson settled his hands on his hips and stared into the distance. He scowled at the horse and rider almost blending into the tree-lined horizon. "If by some twisted trick of the devil that man survives, I'm killing him the next time I see him; I don't care where we are."

"You think he'll be back?" Wolstan asked, a heavy frown creasing his brow. "There's nothing here for him anymore."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Emerson muttered, looking unconcerned at the prospect. But then his lips curled in a smug grin, and he met Declan and Wolstan's gazes as he added, "He sure didn't appreciate me bringing up his scar."

Declan arched a brow. "I've always known Cyrus to be a conceited man, but do you honestly think he's a big enough chucklehead to return just because—"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Absolutely." Emerson nodded. "There isn't a thing that man hasn't done—people he hasn't attempted to charm, manipulate, or lie to in his private or business dealings—that wasn't somehow tied to his looks. The fact that he now has a disfiguring scar has got to be a crippling blow for him and quite possibly explains why he's been a recluse these past four months."

"He'll want revenge," Wolstan said as a chill raced down his spine and his stomach twisted into thousands of knots, "against Mae—"

"I wounded him good, Wooly," Declan rushed to add, settling his left arm around Wolstan's shoulders. "Might not have dropped him out of the saddle like I wanted, but it was more than a flesh wound, so he's gonna be hurtin' and in need of doctoring if he doesn't bleed out 'fore the day is over. I'm sure of it."

"Did you see where you hit him?" Emerson asked, motioning for them to follow him toward the rubble Luella was focused on.

"Right side, about mid-back."

Emerson nodded and smiled at Declan in approval. "If we're lucky, there's a good chance you hit the liver, and Cyrus'll bleed out before he gets to Dr. Gillis—which is where I'm guessing he's headed. It's the only conceivable reason for him to ride south instead of his family up north."

"What if we aren't so lucky?" Wolstan asked, tossing a plank of wood aside before facing Emerson.

"Lung shot would be my next guess."

"Fatal?" Declan asked with a hopeful arch of his brow.

Emerson shook his head and shrugged. "Not always. Mr. Halpine's living proof a man can survive with only one fully functioning lung, though he's admitted it's painful as the devil."

Muttering a curse, Wolstan hung his head and settled his hands on his hips. He racked his brain for what the next course of action should be to keep Mae safe from a vengeful Cyrus.

"For now," Emerson said, drawing his attention, "take what comfort you can in knowing he's wounded—"

"And he's riding an injured horse," Declan interjected, "that'll slow him down a bit."

Emerson nodded and continued, "He's bound to be in a great deal of pain, and several things could prevent him from recuperating."

The corners of Wolstan's lips twitched at his brother and uncle's attempt to cheer him up. "Such as?"