Ripping Time

"No..." The boy was clawing at Noah's arm. "They'll just kill you... and Marcus... the girls... he'll kill you..."

"Not that one," Noah said roughly. "He's dead. Shot the bastard out of his saddle. Left him for the buzzards."

"Then they'll send someone else!"

If they hadn't already...

The unspoken words hung in the air, as hot and terrifying as the coppery smell of Julius' blood. "Please..." Julius was choking out the words, "you can't afford to take me back. I'll only slow you down. Just get the girls and run, please... ." Marcus tried to hush the frantic boy. Guilt ripped through him. He'd allowed Julius to help—this was his fault. "Please, Julius, do not speak! You have not the strength. Here, can you swallow a little water?" He held his canteen to the boy's lips.

"Just a sip," Noah cautioned. "There, that's enough. Here, help me get him up. No, Julius, we have to go back to camp anyway, to rescue the kids. You're coming with us, so don't argue. Marcus, we'll put him on your horse." The detective glanced up, met Marcus' gaze. "He's right, you know. They will send someone else. And someone after that."

"What can we do?" Marcus felt helpless, bitterly afraid, furious with himself for bringing his young friend into this.

"We leave Julius with the camp surgeon, that's what. As soon as we get back to camp, you get the girls and take them back to the livery stable with you. During the confusion, you and I will leave camp with the kids. Take our horses and our gear and ride out. By the time they figure out we're gone, we'll be far enough away to catch a train out of the territory."

Marcus swallowed exactly once. "And go where?" he whispered.

"East. Way East. To New York." Noah held Marcus's gaze carefully, reluctance and regret brilliant in those enigmatic eyes. "And eventually," the detective added softly, "to London. Je

Three years from now...

Marcus looked down into his young friend's ashen face, his pain-racked eyes, and knew they didn't have any choice. Three years in hiding... or this. When next Ianira saw their children, just hours after dropping them off at daycare, from her perspective, Artemisia would be nearly seven, Gelasia almost four. Gelasia might not even remember her mother. Ianira might well never forgive him. But he had no choice. They couldn't risk going back to the station, not even long enough to crash through the Brita

Wordlessly, he helped the detective lift Julius to Marcus' saddle. Wordlessly, he climbed on behind his dying friend, steadied him and kept the boy from falling. Then turned his horse on the dusty, blood-spattered trail and left Julius' groaning, gut-shot mount sprawled obscenely across the path. A sharp report behind him, from Noah's gun, sent his pulse shuddering; but the agonized sounds tearing from the wounded horse cut off with that brief act of mercy. He tightened his hands around the sweaty wet leather of his reins.

And swore vengeance.

Je

Then she lay propped across something hard, while she was thoroughly sick onto the street. Someone was holding her up, kept her from falling while she vomited. Memory struck hard, of the gun aimed at her face, of the roar and gout of flame, the agony of the gunshot striking her. She struggled, convinced she was in the hands of that madman, that he'd carried her off to finish her or interrogate her...

"Easy, there."

Whoever held her was far stronger than Je

"Cor, luv," the woman said softly, "if you ain't just a sight, now. I've ‘ad me quite a jolly time, so I ‘ave, tryin' t' foller you all the way ‘ere, an' you bent on getting yourself that lost and killed."

Je

Je

The detective's low chuckle shocked her. Je

Mind whirling, Je

The detective was pulling off a shabby black coat, which served to protect Je

Je

"We came across from New York, of course. Hopped a train in Colorado and lost ourselves nice and thoroughly in Chicago and points east." The detective's voice darkened. "That down-timer kid from the station, Julius? He was disguised as you, Je