Page 112 of Charlotte's Reckoning
She clutched his shirt, not ready to let him go. “Not without me.”
“No way in hell am I leaving you behind.”
Pressing her cheek against the side of his neck, Charlotte whispered, “Thank you for saving me—again.”
Though his embrace was tender, his response was gruff, laced with self-reproach. “I regret not taking you out of here sooner. It’s happening now. Two men breaking in with one dead in your bedroom is my limit.”
The screaming and near-choking had left her throat scratchy and sore, but she managed to croak her agreement. “Mine too.”
“Get dressed,” he ordered in his take-charge sheriff’s voice, but she was fine with that. “I’ll check on the one who’s still breathing, then we’ll go.”
Charlotte peeked into her bedroom, spotting Cleve’s muddy boots. She’d rather not see him again and hurried to her chest, which she kept in the main room because her bedroom was too cramped. It mainly held winter clothes, but she grabbed the first dark dress she found and pulled it on. Nothing she owned suited a midnight ride in a storm, but the purple wouldn’t attract attention like the crimson, bright yellow, or jade ones.
Kneeling on the floor, she rummaged further, finding nothing she’d call rain gear until she reached the bottom. She’d held onto her mother’s cloak all these years as a keepsake. It was too faded and out of style to wear out, but the oiled silk would keep her relatively dry in the driving rain. When she tied the strings at the throat and pulled up the hood, it covered her from head to toe, including the purple gown.
She laced up her old walking shoes and went to the door to let Seth know she was ready. He was questioning the outlaw while bandaging his bleeding leg, but the man wasn’t cooperating.
“You’re not doing yourself any favors by not telling me your name and how you just stumbled upon a cabin set back far off the road in a storm,” he warned. “If you cooperate, I’ll send someone to fetch Doc Morgan to see about your leg. He doesn’t like seeing patients in a jail cell. He says it’s damn inconvenient and not up to his cleanliness standards. I keep telling him my deputies clean the cells once a month, whether they need it or not. They even remember to bring the prisoners breakfast and supper, most days.”
The outlaw, soaked, muddy, and bleeding, stupidly and defiantly replied, “I ain’t telling you nothing. Where’s my brother? Cleve!”
“Think real hard,” Seth said over his shouting. “I’m sure it will come to you.”
“His name is Silas,” Charlotte said from the porch, which offered some shelter from the wind and driving rain. “The one inside is Cleve, his brother. I recognize them from the Red Eye. They work for Quentin Sneed.”
Seth paused what he was doing. His face hardened at this new information, and he scowled at the injured man. “Did Sneed send you to scare her off or to kill her?”
Silas remained defiant. “Are you deaf, lawman? I’m not saying nothing. Except the bitch had it coming.”
“Fine. You can stand alone for the crime of attempted murder and explain to Hanging Judge Simpson why he shouldn’t send you to the gallows for it.”
More so than poor jail conditions, that got his tongue flapping. “It was Sneed! He paid us each twenty gold pieces each to shut her up.”
“Shut her up, meaning kill her?” Seth asked to clarify.
“I…uh…I didn’t do nothin’. I didn’t even get inside.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Seth told him, returning to his task. “It comes down to intent.”
“Huh?” Silas asked, clearly not the sharpest of the brothers.
“You entered into a contract by accepting the gold,” the sheriff explained. “Then you came here intending to kill her. Tsk, tsk,” he clucked, shaking his head and sending rivulets of rain from the brim of his hat into Silas’ face. “The undertaker is going to be busy this week.”
“I’m not going down for this alone,” he exclaimed, wiping his eyes with muddy, bloody fingers, making matters worse. “None of this was my idea, which makes Sneed as guilty as me and Cleve!”
Seth knotted off the strip of cloth he was using to keep the bandage in place. To Charlotte, he did it with a sharper tug than necessary, eliciting a yelp and a string of curses from Silas.
“Bet that hurt,” Seth observed, with the sympathy the situation called for—very little.
He stood and faced Charlotte. “I didn’t see their horses. We’ll have to bring him in on Willow.”
“What about—” She cocked her head toward the cabin. “Are we just going to leave him?”
“It’s not like he’s going anywhere,” he replied truthfully. “I’ll arrange for a wagon to pick up the body once the weather improves.”
His casual comment triggered a fresh wave of curses from Silas, including insults calling Seth everything from a murderous bastard to far worse.
In no time, he had her mare saddled and hefted Silas onto her back. It wasn’t without a struggle, though; his ear-piercing squeals of protest and pain tore through the steady rain.
