Catherine shifted slightly. “Well, what are we to do? He’s a sheriff, after all, but perhaps he will see things in a reasonable light.”
What’s reasonable? Jack wondered. It was the longest span of time he’d been close to her, and he was loath to move. That you’re alive, or that we’re inside that goddamn claim and you’re talking like it’s a tea party?
“I don’t know. I didn’t think much beyond keeping it contained. Now it’s getting out, and God alone knows what will happen. When does the stagecoach come?”
Tension invading her. “I am not leaving, Robert. I thought I would find your grave, but instead, well, here we are. In any case, we are Barrowe-Brownes, and I am not leaving you to the mercy of…whatever happens next.”
Jack tried blinking again. It was no use; his eyes were crusted shut, and if he could get hold of whatever rag she was using, he could scrub the crust free. But that would tell her that he was awake.
And listening.
“I swear, I will carry you into town and throw you on the stagecoach myself. You should go back to Boston.”
“Do try it, Robert. I shall take great pleasure in teaching you not to manhandle a lady so. I struck a man in the face with a yardstick recently, and was also party to a murder by skillet. I advise you not to try my temper.”
A shuffling sound, and a sigh. “Have I told you lately how deadly annoying your stubbornness is? It’s unladylike, Kittycat.”
“I would curse you, darling brother, but I suspect you have heard worse. And he is awake.” She shifted again, dabbing at his forehead now. “Hello, Sheriff Gabriel.”
He cleared his throat, harshly, felt new tension invade the chill air. “It’s Jack, sweetheart. And is that Robbie Browne I hear?”
“Yes sir, Sheriff sir.” The same edge of mockery, the same irritating I am of quality, sir, and you are not.
Yes. It was most definitely the boy Gabe had shot. “I thought I killed you. And you, Catherine, have been keepin’ secrets.”
Her stiffness now was quite proper, and she ceased dabbing at him with whatever rag she had been using. “No more than you. I would call you a murderer, but I suspect you would take it as a compliment.”
The prickly tone cheered him immensely. At least she was well enough to bristle at him. “You’re the one who asked me to get rid of a corpse, sweetheart.” He found his arms would work, and his hands were clumsy but obedient. Scrubbing at his eyes rid them of crusted blood, and he blinked furiously several times before his vision cleared and he was treated to the sight of a pale, fever-cheeked Catherine Barrowe, her hat knocked most definitely askew and her curls all a-tumble, hovering above him. Her dark eyes glowed, the sleeve of her jacket was torn, and she was so beautiful it made his heart threaten to stop.
“He seems quite familiar with you, Kittycat.” The boy sounded like he was enjoying himself immensely, for a dead man. “I don’t know about his family, though.”
“Robbie, if you do not cease irritating me, I shall pinch you.” She sighed, and her gaze rested anxiously on Jack’s face. “Mr. Gabriel, you buried my brother in consecrated ground. He is…as you see, he is not dead—you saved him from complete contamination, he tells me. I would ask you to—”
I doubt I saved him from anything. “Give me a minute.” He didn’t want to, but he found his body would do what he asked, and he rolled onto his side. From there it was short work to get his legs under him, and he gained his feet in an ungraceful lunge.
Unfortunately, his guns were missing. One of them was in Robert Browne’s skeletal white hands. The boy was so thin his bones were working out through his dead-white flesh, but he was remarkably steady as he pointed the six-shooter steadily in Gabe’s direction.
“Move away from him, Sis.” Robert Barrowe grinned, his lips skinned back from very white, pearl-glowing teeth. His canines were longer than they had been, and wickedly pointed. “I think it’s safest.”
Catherine, her riding habit sadly torn and her curls damp with rain, still on her knees on the sandy floor, gazed steadily at her brother. “There’s no need for that. If he promises to—”
“You’d believe a promise from the sheriff? That’s rich. He’s the enemy, Cat. We have larger vexations, too, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s loose, its attention is away from me for the moment. But Damnation is the first place he’s going to visit, once he can get back in through the cracks in my head. We have to leave, and now.”
“He? It?” Jack’s fingers found the source of the blood crusting his face. Head wounds were messy. Other than that, he seemed just dandy. Except his ribs were none too happy, and his head felt like it was going to roll off his shoulders. “Just what did you wake up in here, Browne?”
“Yes.” Catherine tilted her head. Two curls fell across her wan little face, and he saw how thin and tired she was. She winced as she moved, as if her ribs were paining her as well. “I was waiting to hear these particulars too, Robbie. What is…he?”
Robbie Browne’s laugh was a marvel of bitterness. “Can’t you guess? Coming into the wilderness has softened your brain, Kittycat. It’s—” Thunder tried to drown his next few words, but Jack had heard enough. He went cold all over, even colder than the ice breathing from the back of the cave, where the claim spiraled down into the bowels of the earth.
God have mercy. He stared at Catherine’s brother, his hands filling with the pins-and-needles of grace again. If he could close the distance between them…
The schoolmarm rose slowly, brushing off her skirts. “Then,” she said briskly, as the thunder receded, “we shall have to find a priest. Come now, Robbie, don’t be a dolt.”
And she stepped toward her brother, whose finger tightened on the trigger.
Chapter 28
Cat was never quite sure afterward what happened. There was a flash, golden instead of blue-white like lightning, and a roar of rage. She fell, hard, her handkerchief—stained with Jack Gabriel’s blood, and full of rainwater and dirt—knocked out of her fingers. The cave’s rock wall was so cold it burned, and the crack of a gunshot was lost under another huge rumbling roll of thunder.
No, don’t—
But they would not listen to her, would they? Just like her parents, or really, anyone else. The simple, sheer inability to listen to anything Cat said seemed to be a hallmark of the world at large. It was not ladylike to shout, but the thought occurred to her that perhaps, just perhaps, it was the only way to be heard.
“Catherine.” A scorching touch on her cheek. “God in Heaven. Say something.”
I fear I am quite beyond words, sir. “Robbie?” Wondering, the name slurred as if she had been at Mother’s sherry a bit too much. “Oh, please, Robbie?”
“Gone. Think he didn’t fancy hanging about once I took my guns back.” Mr. Gabriel sounded tightly amused, and as the clouding over her vision cleared, she found herself propped against cold stone, with Jack Gabriel crouched before her, his green-gold gaze disconcertingly direct and his face decked with dried blood, grit, and speckles of rainwater. “Enough time for him later. Are you hurt? Did he…tell me now, Catherine, did he hurt you?”