Grace and the Guiltless

Chapter 5

A bullet skittered through the sand just past Grace’s head. She barely flinched, unable to do anything more, but Bullet screamed and reared.

They’ve found me . . . the gang . . .

Pa’s gun lay under the bunched folds of her skirt, but heaviness weighed her arm down. She just couldn’t lift it.

Several more shots squeezed off in rapid succession. Why didn’t they hit her? How many bullets would it take? Death would be a welcome relief. She would be with her family; she would be at peace . . .

No!

If she died now, the Guiltless Gang would get away with everything they had done.

She struggled, trying desperately to move. A horse snorted, and suddenly a low voice came from above her as she lay on the hot ground. Grace struggled to open her eyes, but her lids seemed to be glued shut. Did she want to see her killer? Surely he wouldn’t miss from this close.

A shadow fell across her face, and a figure leaned over her, blocking the relentless waves of heat. A hand slid under her head, tilting it up.

Did he plan to strangle her?

She should fight, but her arms flopped bonelessly, like the limp arms of Abby’s cornhusk doll. Grace finally managed to pry her eyes open to a squint, but blobs of swirling color danced in front of her. Gradually, the brim of a black hat came into focus.

“P-Pa?” Her parched lips could barely form the word. Reality came crashing back, and Grace shivered in spite of the broiling heat. She jerked as something brushed her mouth.

Water. Precious drops of water. She gulped a mouthful and chased the drips with her tongue.

“Careful now,” a deep voice said. “Drink slowly or you’ll make yourself sick. Small sips.”

The hand behind her head slid down to support her back and eased her into a sitting position. A hazy figure dressed in black blurred in Grace’s vision. A white band danced up and down on his neck. She struggled to focus, and eventually she could see a man smiling.

“I hope I didn’t frighten you with those bullets. The noise scared off the wolves. They were probably only curious. I don’t believe they eat people, but I didn’t want to take a chance.”

Spots whirled in front of Grace’s eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the dizziness.

“When did you eat last?”

When had she eaten? The bordello . . .

“Yesterday.” Her voice came out hoarse and whispery.

“I don’t have much, but I’ll share what I have.” The man reached into the rawhide pouch at his side and drew out a small ball of food. “It’s pemmican. I buy it from the Indians.”

He held it out, and Grace opened her mouth like a baby bird, helpless, her arms limp at her sides.

He broke off a piece and fed it to her.

Grace chewed slowly, savoring the tart dried berries, bits of beef jerky, and melting fat. The raging acid in her stomach began to calm.

The stranger gave Bullet some water, then knelt beside her again. “We need to get you into the shade. Think you can stand?”

Her arms and legs wouldn’t cooperate, so he picked her up and carried her to the cottonwood tree she’d been heading toward before she collapsed. He settled her under the low-hanging branches, where the air felt several degrees cooler.

“Who are —” She croaked out the words.

“John Byington, at your service.”

John Byington? The name sounded familiar, but Grace’s mind was so addled she couldn’t recall where she’d heard it before.