Page 32 of A Dangerous Heart (Wind River Mail-Order Brides #4)

“J ust one more,” Clare whispered. She worked by feel in the last moments of dark, racing against the dawn. Her fingers shook as she pulled the fuse and blasting cap from the top of the dynamite stick and cut the fuse in tiny pieces.

She guessed an hour had passed since she’d crossed the river onto Quade’s land.

Cold had seeped into her bones. She slipped a lone blasting cap into her pocket.

Shivers racked her body as she buried the rest of the caps and the remaining powder in the crumbly soil near the bank.

She hadn’t thought to bring a shovel, and her nails were cracked and bleeding by the time she was finished.

She covered the spot with several large rocks to camouflage the work she’d done.

With dawn painting the horizon pink and orange, she could see that more digging had been done since Ben’s accident.

Quade’s men had widened the river so that a long, flat pond had pooled.

Water still flowed toward the McGraws’ homesteads, but when the last barrier was broken, it would send the water to a new man-made river carved out in Quade’s land.

Her heart sank.

Clare pictured Isaac’s cabin and heard the rushing of the cool water. She remembered splashing in the river and Isaac’s laughter and his steady hand clasping hers. If Quade’s and Victor’s plans succeeded, the river near the cabin would become a trickling creek, eventually a dry bed.

She’d done all she knew to do to stop the dynamite blast. Now she needed to find Eli. That was the only thing that mattered.

As she approached Victor’s camp on foot, her fingers began to tingle—whether from the cold early-morning air or the surge of blood through her veins, she couldn’t tell.

At one point, she dropped to crawl on her belly to stay out of sight as the sun rose.

The brown autumn grasses were chilled and sliced into her palms like tiny knives.

A horse blew from nearby, startling her. She froze until she was certain no one was moving. Victor’s cronies tended to sleep late, thanks to the drink they usually consumed into the night.

She crept around the perimeter of the camp, avoiding the half dozen horses roped near a stand of trees, and crouched behind a flatbed wagon.

A silhouette of a short, stocky man with a potbelly moved near the fire. Shorty Jenkins.

Four canvas tents had been pitched around a large cookfire and an aging chuck wagon. Eli had to be in one of those tents. But which one?

A snore emanated from the tent nearest her. Her heart was pounding in her ears, drowning out any other sound. If Victor’s men were asleep, could she creep through the tents themselves? It would keep her out of sight?—

Suddenly, she was yanked backward, an arm banded around her waist. She felt the tip of a cold blade against the skin on her neck.

“What have we here?” The familiar and despised voice of Tom Crow rasped in her ear. “Clare Barlow, out for a stroll? I don’t think so.”

She felt the sting of the blade tip cutting into her skin beneath her chin. Every muscle in her body tensed. She wanted to reach for the derringer in her skirt pocket but thought better of it. Tom would slit her throat in an instant.

“I need to see Victor. To make a deal.” Clare made her voice strong even though she quaked inside.

“You ain’t in any position to make deals.” His arm cinched tighter, crushing her rib cage.

“I have something he needs,” she gasped. “For that surprise you have waiting under the bridge.”

He hesitated.

“Take me to Victor,” she ordered, acting on her brief upper hand.

She’d hoped to avoid Victor completely. To find Eli and run before anyone knew she’d been there.

Too late for that.

Tom Crow kept her upper arm in a bruising grip as he marched her past the horses. Shorty gave them a narrow-eyed look before opening the back of the chuck wagon, the old hinges sending a grating screech into the morning. Men stirred in their tents.

Victor exited the middle tent, bare-chested, as they neared camp.

He walked with a limp. She must’ve hit him.

She hadn’t seen him stagger when she’d fired, but…

A grim spark of satisfaction flared before dread smothered it.

He pulled on his shirt, not paying a lick of attention to them until Tom cleared his throat.

Victor scowled when he saw her, eyes lit with deadly anger.

“Where’s Eli?” she asked quickly.

“You check her for weapons?” he demanded of Tom.

“Eli!” she shouted.

Tom backhanded her, the hit wrenching her head and making her see stars. “She ain’t armed.” Tom tossed the derringer on the ground at Victor’s feet.

Clare strained her ears. Had that been a sniffle from one of the nearby tents?

“Where’d ya catch her?”

“I came here of my own accord,” Clare said evenly. “I want to make a deal.”

Shorty snorted as he stepped in and handed Victor a plate of cold beans and hardtack. He was gone a moment later, Tom following.

There was no point in her running. Victor was armed, and the open prairie offered nowhere to hide. Even so, her eyes moved to the horses near the flatbed wagon they’d passed.

Victor stood with plate in hand, scooped some beans into his mouth, and chewed slowly, watching her through slitted eyes. “Tell me what the McGraws are planning,” he ordered as he bent and set his plate aside.

“I don’t know.”

He lunged toward her and slapped her so hard that her head was knocked to one side.

The blow stung, and tears spilled before she could stop them.

“Tell me!” he roared.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision. In a soft but firm voice that had Victor leaning in, she said, “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.” It was true. She’d left the room.

His next blow sent her spinning to the ground.

She lay in the dirt as blood flowed from her nose. Felt the bruise blooming at her right cheek bone. She’d have a black eye soon—not the first he’d given her. But this wasn’t the time to fight back. Not yet.

Victor loomed over her. “You bait? They coming for you?”

“No,” she croaked. The denial hit hard with all its truth. Isaac was gone. The McGraws were mounting a defense—for their family and legacy. No one was coming for her.

She was more alone than she’d ever been.

She straightened her shoulders as best she could. She couldn’t afford to let herself become distracted from her mission. Where was Eli? She couldn’t do anything before she knew where he was.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement from inside the nearest tent. A tent flap flicked, and Eli peeked out. Relief washed over Clare. She mouthed, Run.

The tent flap slipped back into place. Had he gotten her message?

Victor squatted at her shoulder and grabbed her braid, yanking her head up and back so that her scalp stung. “Anne filled your head with all that Bible nonsense, but I guess it didn’t stick.”

“Anne believed it was real. And Anne loved you. Her love was real, Victor. She was the only true thing you ever had in your life.”

For a fleeting moment, something passed through his eyes—regret, or maybe just a memory—but it hardened just as quickly. “You stole my boys!” he shouted.

A cold and merciless look met her eyes.

“One verse I do like is ‘An eye for an eye.’” He chuckled when an involuntary shiver racked her body.

“Where’s your yellow-bellied marshal?” he demanded with contempt.

“I took his money and left,” she lied. “He made for a terrible husband. Too many rules.”

Uncertainty crossed his expression. He let her hair go, and her head flopped down, forehead resting on her arms.

Run, Eli. Please run.

Victor nudged her side with his boot. “You’re a Barlow through and through. Like Pa said, ‘Blood will out.’”

Victor’s mocking of Anne brought the sting of tears. Anne had believed Clare could make a new life for herself, that she could rescue Eli and Ben from the future their father had dictated for them. But Clare wasn’t strong enough.

I think you’re more than the name you were born with, Clare.

Isaac’s words echoed in her mind. She’d read the story of Jacob again, how God had given him a new name—Israel—and a promise that stirred something deep in her soul. Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by name; thou art mine.

Mine. She belonged to the Lord.

She was not Victor’s sister.

Not a Barlow. Not anymore.

The realization rooted deep and brought a ridiculous sense of peace. She pushed to her hands and knees.

“I’m not a Barlow,” she said, meeting Victor’s eyes. “I’m a McGraw.”

A subtle tremor crossed his hard face, revealing a loss of control. He kicked her in the side. “No, you ain’t.”

Pain and nausea overtook her. She curled into a ball. A long, breathy moan escaped her lips. Yet the truth settled inside her like a numbing anesthetic.

“Maybe I’ll never really be a McGraw. But one thing I know for sure—I’m not a Barlow either.” She placed her hand over her heart. “I’m a daughter of the living God. The One Anne believed in until her dying day. I’m His. And that’s enough for me.”

Victor’s face contorted. He drew his gun so quickly she was looking down the short end of the barrel before she could blink.

A calm courage filled her. She would play this out till the end—come what may.

“You can shoot me,” she said with quiet resolve, raising a defiant chin. “But then you’ll never find out where I buried the blasting caps. And Victor? I took every. last. one.”

* * *

Isaac’s frustration mounted as he lay on his belly in the damp grass, trying to peer through the dark and make out Victor’s camp.

If only he had his field glasses. In the hazy glow of a dying central fire, he could make out the outlines of four tents.

What he couldn’t determine was the number of scouts prowling and men sleeping in the tents. Or which tent, if any, Eli was in.

Isaac crept forward carefully, drawing nearer to the cliffs and using the brush as cover.