The Damnation Affair

Chapter 27

One thing about the weather in these parts: there were no halfway measures. It was either dry enough to parch you in minutes, or it was a solid wall of water fit to drown you even if you were upright and riding through it.

He had a bad momene.

God, just let her be alive.

As if God would listen to his prayers. Those of the Templis were sworn to chastity, and he’d betrayed that, hadn’t he? Along with all the other virtues, one after another, like dominoes.

The lightning-charred tree was no longer a rarity on this hillside; nevertheless, he knew the trail and struggled up, shaking aside the clutching wet fingers of undergrowth. Out here, any scrap of moisture was to be clung to, and Damnation rested where it did because of the aquifer underneath.

Later, when Jack Gabriel thought of Hell, he thought of that battle up the hilly trail, every branch and root conspiring to clutch and hold, the lightning throwing bolts at earth and sky alike, and the sick knowledge beating under his heart that he might be too late. Wet dirt crumbling and the sick taste of failure in his mouth again, his boots slipping and grinding, the guns all but useless in their holsters and his hands prickle-numb with grace that had no outlet.

There was the large trunk of the devilpine, and he rested his back against it for a moment, his ribs heaving. If he kept this up, his heart was going to explode. He blinked several times, his hatbrim sagging under the water, and wished he’d had time to step behind a bush on his way up. Fear had a way of making a man’s water want to escape.

He stepped around the devilpine, guns out, and saw nothing but the clearing before the grinning crack in the hillside, deep velvet-black and exhaling a cold draft that turned the rain to flashing ice. Another gem-bright dart of lightning, almost blinding him, and there was a shape at the claim’s threshold—a woman’s skirts, fluttering as she was dragged by a tall scarecrow into the gaping maw. He was running before he had time to think, a thundercrack of rage lifting him off his feet and his spurs ringing in the moment before he touched ground again, the bright white-hot flash of God’s fury scorching all through him before he landed, flung through the entrance and into an ice-bath of torpid bad mancy. He collided with the scarecrow, and the thin man threw out an arm. The blow tossed Jack Gabriel aside, against the cave wall, and he slid down with red pain tearing a hole in his side.

Cath—

But the thought cut off, midstream, and a black curtain descended.

“I think he’s waking up.” Hushed, a woman’s voice. Very soft, its cultured tones a brush of velvet against his skin.

Jack blinked, or tried to. There was something crusted in his eyes. A damp, cold, clammy touch brushed against the crust, but not hard enough. You had to scrub to get dried blood out of crevices.

“Just keep him over there.” Harsh, a man’s voice, but oddly familiar. “I can smell it on him.”

“Ah, yes. You were saying?” Another tentative brush. She was touching him, and his head was pillowed on something soft but damp. There was a living warmth underneath it, and he tried to clear his eyelids of the crust. Sound of running water, thunder rattling above a roof of stone and earth. Hard ground under his hip, he was half on his side, and his hands were flung out, empty.

“He buried me in consecrated ground, Cat. So…here I am.”

“The consecration kept you whole. So you’re…dead. And…not dead.”

“Well, yes. You keep saying that.”

“Pardon me for having a tiny amount of trouble with the idea, Robbie. It is rather unholy.”

“Mother would just…” A heavy sigh. “But she has, hasn’t she. I’m sorry, Sis.”

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.