44. Burning

1865 OCTOBER 29, SUNDAY

44

Isucked in a shuddering breath, as if breaking through a watery surface. Gulping down stale, musty air. Swallowing felt like a million tiny shards of glass going down my gullet. My ears rang, and my body and head screamed. Blinking open grainy eyes, I steeled myself, expecting to see Ethan hovering over me again, but instead, I was alone.

Moonlight shone through a glass window, partially covered by a scrap of fabric. A cradle before a cold hearth. Dusty shelves of discarded preserves. The Williams' cabin!

I was bound to a chair, and he had left me here. I didn't remember moving to the cabin or how long I had been unconscious. Taking stock of my limbs and body, I ached all over and my neck and head felt particularly painful, but it didn't seem like he had harmed me in any other way. How long had he left me here?

Then I remembered.

John!

He was going out to find John.

The only other one who knew his plan to raid St. Albans. The only other one, besides Katie, I was protecting. The only other one whom he could possibly use as leverage to make me go with him. I had to do something. I had to get out of here. I had to stop Ethan before it was too late. Katie must have reached the Mathis house by now. She would have told them. John would be out looking for me.

I struggled against the strips of cloth Ethan had fashioned into bindings for my wrists and ankles, trying to loosen them against the chair rungs. They would not budge. I searched the floor for something to use, anything to help me get out of here.

A nail! A nailhead stuck out from one of the floorboards. I would have to tip the chair, scoot it across the floor. But it could help rip through the cloth.

Using my body to hoist myself, inch by inch, I shuffled the chair along the floor. Taking another painful, deep breath, I closed my eyes, throwing my body to one side. I tipped. The chair carried me over, impacting with the floor. A bruising pain shot up my arm. Air wheezed out of my lungs. Letting the agony ebb and flow, I lay there, stunned, waiting for it all to subside. But I had no time. Ethan could walk in at any moment.

The loose nail stared at me like my saving grace. Like an inchworm, I wiggled, wincing each time my arm scraped along the rough floorboards and my neck spasmed. I stopped to catch my breath and calm my stomach, threatening to reject its content.

"Please, Lord." I tried to muster whatever strength I had left to reach that nail. It seemed so far away. I took a deep, steady breath and willed myself to keep going, inching closer, scraping against the floor.

I reached the nail and let out a muffled howl as I tried to move my hands over the head of the nail. The chair pinched and pinned my arm, making it nearly impossible to move my bound hands toward the nail. My knuckles scraped against the rough board, stinging as they broke open, but I did not stop. I would break my hands before I stopped. I wiggled until the nail caught the binding.

Sawing against the nail, I continued to pray, "Please, please."

Then I heard something. I stopped to listen, trying to quiet my breath to hear. Bushes rustled and horse hooves clopped. Not waiting a moment more, I resumed pulling and tugging at the bindings, sawing through them. I hissed in pain as the nail sliced my palm, but then my hands were free. I sat up, my muscles screaming in protest, and I reached for my ankles, fumbling with the ties.

The movement outside came closer. A horse snorted and a bridle jangled. I slumped to the ground, scrambling away from the chair, searching for something—anything—I could use as a weapon.

Ethan was back.

He rushed in, closing the door behind him.

"I was followed," he announced, putting his back to the door. He lifted his eyes to see me standing there, and they flashed black with rage. "How in the hell!"

He flew at me, and I nearly stumbled back over the fallen chair before he had his grip on my wrist.

"No you don't!"

His grip was punishing, pinching, squeezing my bones together.

He whipped a knife from his belt.

And I screamed a bloodcurdling scream.

"Shut the hell up!"

His eyes frantically searched the cabin, landing on the shelves of jars.

"Did he follow you here?" I whispered, hoping John—anyone—had heard me scream.

Ethan pulled me over to the cabinet, pushing preserves aside until he found an empty jar. Without a word, and before I could even flinch, the cold sting of his blade cut across my wrist.

I hissed. "What was that for?"

I tried to draw back, but he only squeezed tighter, the pressure causing my bones to groan, blood bubbling up from the wound.

He yanked my hand over the jar, my blood dripping off my wrist, the cut from the nail pooling in my palm, then running down my fingers into the jar.

"That's a lot of blood," I commented numbly, my head swimming. The world seemed to tilt, and queasiness flooded me.

"Don't you dare faint," Ethan blurted. "You'll give me as much as I need to end this, and right now, you're proving more trouble than you're worth."

My eyes fluttered from my wrist to the contents of the shelves and cabinet. An arm's reach away was a hammer. A hammer I remembered Brett using to cover the windows. That seemed so long ago. A lifetime ago. I rested my hand inches away from the hammer, leaning against the cabinet as if needing the support to stay standing.

"We got the place surrounded!" called a loud voice from outside.

Ethan startled, taking up his revolver from his holster. The cock of the trigger echoed through the cabin.

"Don't you dare move," he ordered.

"Come out and no one gets hurt!" came the voice again. Seth. I'd recognize his voice anywhere, and I was thankful Ethan did not.

Ethan put his finger up to his lips. His eyes pierced through me, willing me to stay still.

"Leave now!" Ethan called back. "I don't want to hurt her?—"

"You already did, you ass," I mocked.

He turned to look at the door and I clutched the hammer, hiding it at my back as boots hit the steps outside.

Ethan gave me a withering glare. "But if you come any closer, I will not hesitate!" He squeezed my wrist, a fountain of crimson running into the glass. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

Silence followed, and I could hear only Ethan's heavy breathing and my ears pulsing. Someone walked through the brush at the front of the house. I tracked the movement and then heard more movement at the back of the house. Were they both out there? Seth and John?

"I said, leave now! I will put a bullet through her head!"

"Liar," I murmured through my teeth.

"I swear to God … Be … Quiet." His whisper came out sharp and stinging.

I stepped into his body, the hammer still at my back, and tipped my head to whisper in his ear. He flinched against me, his grip loosening.

"You won't kill me, Ethan. Not here, anyway. You need me to go to Woodhue with you. The place stolen from you." I purposefully used the words of the curse. His eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened. "Who's to say what's in that jar is enough? You won't chance it. You need to take me—your bride—so you can spill all my blood." I was inches away from him now and could feel the heat of his breath with each exhale.

He was right about one thing. Fear is powerful. Maybe even more powerful than love because in one sweeping movement, he wrapped an arm around my waist, pinning my injured hand beneath his grip and pulling my back against his chest. In the whirl of the motion, I brought my other hand around, and with all my strength, regardless of my hand beneath his, I smashed his hand with the hammer. Ethan yelped and I whimpered, but I ignored the pain. His gun tumbled to the floor, misfiring and blasting a hole through the wall.

Everything happened so fast then.

Ethan and I wrestled to the ground as he tried to get the hammer away from me, holding me back and reaching for his pistol. The window shattered in the back of the cabin and the front door banged open, but Ethan and I still struggled.

I pounded him again with the hammer, this time landing on the shoulder I had shot a year ago, and Ethan let out a guttural cry.

"Let go of her!" The barrel of a rifle was pointed in our faces. Ethan stilled and I lifted my head. I sucked in a breath.

The cabin was so dark, and the man standing before us was all shadows.

"Let go of her now!" he repeated, pushing back his hat so Ethan could see his face. John's eyes were like two orbs of burning ore, his face like stone, as he stared down the barrel at Ethan.

Ethan's grip hardened. "You won't kill me, Mathis. Not for her." He sneered as he brought us back up to standing. I didn't turn to look behind us, but I knew Seth stood at the open door, his own rifle positioned. "I know your kind. Proud and loyal until faced with pain. Weak."

"It seems you don't know me at all," John snarled.

"Or me," Seth said.

Just as Ethan turned to look behind his shoulder, Seth pulled the trigger. I winced, protecting myself from the blast. Ethan jerked forward, and his grip loosened enough that I could scramble away from him. John placed himself between Ethan and me, as Ethan melted to the floor.

Blood bloomed at Ethan's lips and he coughed. I could not let him get away this time. I needed to make sure he was dead. That he could never come back. So I would never have to look over my shoulder again.

Rage bubbled up my chest, the hammer steady in my hand, and I pushed past John.

Not until the hammer connected with his skull did I know what I was doing, and I did not stop. Anger surged through me.

Over and over again, I hammered Ethan's head to the ground.

Blood splashed up at me every time the hammer landed, but I didn't stop. I did not want to stop. I needed to be sure he would not come back.

"Ella," came a soft voice. "Ella," John punctuated, touching my arm.

I flinched at the contact, stopping my hammering. I looked up at John. His eyes were full of concern and fear. Was he scared of me? Ethan was now a bloody pulp on the ground. My hand started trembling and I dropped the hammer, suddenly afraid of myself.

"He's dead. He's dead," I assured myself.

"Yes, he's dead," John confirmed, pulling me to him.

I couldn't stop trembling. John tugged me tighter against him.

"I killed him," I said.

Seth and John exchanged worried looks.

"I need to get her out of here," John told him.

"What about this?" Seth asked.

John looked around us. The tipped chair, the jar of blood leading a dark trail to Ethan's body. The pool of blood growing beneath him. Then he said, "Burn it. Burn it down to the ground."

Seth gave a firm nod.

Glancing down at my shaking, bloody hands, the floodgates opened. "I can't … go back … like this. Katie … will see …" Blood was everywhere. My hands and dress were covered in it, dripping off me. I could feel the sticky liquid coating my face and hair. I looked back up at John. He was about ready to combust. His jaw clenched and his eyes darkened.

"I know," he agreed.

His arm did not leave my waist as we stepped around Ethan's body and he guided me outside.

We left Seth behind to set the blaze. John did not let go as we walked away from that house. He helped me step through the dark while I shook and stumbled, his grip firm and in control. I was numb and shattered, my limbs heavy and weak.

"You'll be all right," John whispered, but I could tell he did not believe himself.

Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision.

"Shh … it's over," he comforted, guiding me down the path until we reached the road.

"He's dead," I said again, not knowing what else to say but feeling like I needed to say something—anything—to hold myself together.

"Yes, he's dead. He's gone now. He won't hurt you again. Let's get you cleaned up."

John led me to a brook that ran near the Williams' place. He helped me kneel beside the water. The moon reflected off the stream, the dark shadows of blood flowing through the silver eddies. The water was ice cold, almost scalding, but it had to feel that way to rid me of Ethan's touch. I scrubbed at my hands and hissed with the sting.

"Let me see." He took my hand in his, examining it. His jaw clenched, anger coursing off him as if he was ready to march back to that cabin and kill Ethan all over again. "We need to stop the bleeding."

"Here. Rip a strip off my petticoat," I suggested, easing myself on my rump and hoisting my skirts.

John's eyes flickered to mine briefly before gripping the hem of my petticoat, and with one great wrench, he ripped through it. My petticoat was already stained with blood, and it bloomed darker as he wrapped it around my hand.

"You are so brave," he whispered, cupping my cheek. "So brave."

He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wetting it and wiping my brow.

The fire had burned out of his eyes, and they glimmered with something else in the moonlight. He brushed the wet cloth along my mouth and jaw, wiping the blood and tears.

"I did everything I could to get away."

"I know. May I?" he asked, gesturing to my hair.

I nodded. My hair had come out of its pins and now hung down in a loose plait. John unbraided my hair, brushing his wet fingers through it, washing the blood out with each pass through. I closed my eyes, my nerves settling, while his fingers threaded through my hair. He wet the handkerchief again, stroking along my hairline to remove the caked-on grime.

His fingers stilled when he reached for the top button of my dress.

"John?"

"It's all over," he assured.

I nodded, giving him permission. His fingers worked the buttons, each one bringing him closer and closer to my breasts. Uncertainty was in his eyes, but I did not stop him. Nor did he stop himself, as he helped my arms out of the sleeves. I lifted my hips so he could pull the dress down. His knuckles brushed my sides, and then my legs and I shuddered. I did not know if it was from the cold, trauma, or his touch. He shucked off the dress, his hands stilling at my ankles.

"Ella," he pleaded, his face etched with pain. "I'm so sorry."

"Oh, John." I couldn't help myself, leaning toward him to touch his face, my fingers grazing the roughness of his jaw. "Please. You are not at fault. You never were. I'm sorry I allowed fear to control my heart." I needed to feel more of him, to hold him close.

John needed that, too, because he clutched my calves, drawing me to him, my hands gripping his shirt.

"I've been afraid too."

"We can't be afraid anymore," I told him.

"No. No, we can't be afraid anymore."

"I love you, John. I've loved you for so long."

His lips crushed mine then, searing them. Needy and demanding. I matched him in desperation, my hand grasping his shirt, holding him to me. I sighed, closing my eyes, feeling warmth grow in my belly as his lips devoured mine.

I needed more of him. My tongue flicked against his lips, urging him to open for me, and when he did, I tasted the sweetness of bourbon on his tongue. John moaned in my mouth, and I knew he was feeling the same growing passion I was feeling. His hands roamed the curve of my neck, caressing my cheeks and beneath my ears.

I pulled him tighter against me, my legs wrapping around his hips, wanting more of him, wanting the weight of him.

"Ella." He came up for a breath before returning to my lips.

"Please, John," I pleaded.

He left my lips again, caressing my side, and I kissed his jaw, not wanting my lips to leave him.

"I love you," he whispered against my mouth, easing us to the ground. "I never stopped."

His hand wandered, stroking down and then up my leg, pushing my chemise with it, until I was exposed to him. I arched my back, urging him on, pressing my body against him until I felt his fingers skim between my legs. Tingles fired all over my body, echoing in my breasts and my core.

"So soft," John whispered.

"I want you," I said, breathless.

The friction built with each stroke of his fingers, circling and dipping. Igniting. Our lips were bruising, our teeth nipping and pulling. His beard rasped deliciously across my skin. I wanted to devour him, make him mine in every way. My heart felt as though it may burst into flames.

An orange glow washed over us, dancing across John's handsome features.

John lifted his lips from mine to look up, while I peppered kisses down his neck.

"The fire started," John said, while I kissed him. "We need to go."

I stilled then, looking over my shoulder to see flames flickering above the treetops.

"We can't be here when it consumes the house," he said, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around me.

As soon as he stood, the heat and weight of him left me, and I drew the jacket closer. The cold ground penetrated through the layers. John dunked the dress in the water, wringing out the blood and dirt.

"We may need to burn this too."

I only nodded. The zing in my blood still pulsed through me.

"Come." He helped me to my feet. Flinging the rifle over his shoulder with the dripping dress, he held me close. "Let's get you home."

He kissed the side of my head, and the press of his lips made me wish we could stay here forever. His arm tightened around my waist, leading me away from the brook.

My adrenaline plummeted with each swaying step before John hoisted me into his arms. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I buried my face in his shoulder, closing my eyes, reveling in his strength. I was safe. And he chose us.