Chapter Fifty

The evening sun was glowing orange in the sky when Zachary saw the home he shared with Samantha come into view. Blaze was tired but the horse was strong and Zachary was glad for that—he'd pushed the gelding too hard today. Betty hadn't been able to keep up and Zachary had lost sight of her and Timothy hours ago. That hadn't mattered. All that had mattered was getting home and finding Samantha safe and sound.

Never in his entire life had Zachary wanted so badly for his gut to be wrong.

The closer Blaze carried him toward the ranch house, the more memories of the past blasted through the protective walls he'd built to keep them at bay.

His family.

The blood.

The bodies.

Eyes once full of happiness and laughter staring up at him with nothing but cold lifelessness that ripped his heart from his chest.

If Samantha's eyes looked through him that way.....

Zachary hardened his heart as his pulse thundered in his veins. They wouldn't. He couldn't lose her. He wouldn't lose her.

The moment Blaze's hooves reached the yard, Zachary was leaping from his back. He saw bodies. Two of them. His gut clenched a moment before he realized they were too big to be Samantha or Eleanor. They were very clearly the bodies of men.

Paying no more attention to them, he raced to the house, his boots pounded up those steps, his hand touched the door handle—and he froze.

Memories so full of blood, fear and pain had him squeezing his eyes tight as his breath came in short pants and terror clutched at his heart. If he swung open this red chunk of wood and found her lying there in a pool of blood....

Zachary opened his eyes and clenched is jaw so tightly his teeth ached. If that was what he found then Timothy would find his cold body lying right there beside Samantha's when he arrived. Zachary could not live through that pain again—he would not live through that pain again.

Not even vengeance would keep him going if he lost Samantha. His light.

Zachary a deep steadying breath, his soul crying out desperately for him to stop. To leave. To not see what waited in that house. Zachary pushed open the door—the creaking of the hinge echoing loudly in the quiet of the evening as if taunting him.

Slowly he stepped inside.

And froze.

For five years Zachary had seen countless scenes that had rendered him terrified, horrified, speechless... He had come up on so many of Clinton's crime scenes—seen the aftermath that him and his men left behind. The blood and the death and the destruction.

And yet none of that had caused true terror to grip his heart the way the eerie silence and seeming hominess of the scene before him did.

Clean dishes sat on the counter covered by a soft towel. A basket of biscuits sat on the table along with a pitcher of lemonade and a newspaper.

Glancing toward the living room he saw the bright quilt folded neatly over the back of the sofa and a bowl of uneaten nuts sitting on the side table—something Eleanor had found herself craving during her pregnancy.

There was nothing out of place. No broken or overturned furniture. No shattered glass. No destroyed decorations. No sign of any struggle. There were no bloody handprints on the walls, no smears along the floor, no pools and puddles. No bodies.

Slowly, Zachary walked through the silent home. "Samantha?" his voice sounded small, broken, and insignificant in the oppressive silence. It didn't take him long to search each untouched room and realize his wife was not here. But there were dead bodies outside which meant someone had been here, the house had been attacked, and if his wife wasn't here that meant....

"Eleanor!!"

Timothy's roar of desperation and rage broke though Zachary's own tormented thoughts. He rushed outside to find his best friend running out of the barn and continuing to call out for his wife.

"They're not here, Tim," Zachary assured him, forcing a calm he didn't feel into his voice. Zachary knew that Tim would need him to be strong. Tim was a good man but he didn't have the experience Zachary had. He didn't know the things that Zachary knew. Hadn't seen the things Zachary had seen.

"Fuck, Zach!" Timothy ran his hand through his messy blond hair, his green eyes wide. "Where the hell are they?"

Zachary didn't want to answer. He didn't want to say the words out loud. If Eleanor and Samantha weren't here there was only one explanation. They'd been taken.

But where?

Zachary went to the man's body that was closest to the barn. He had a bullet wound through his head. Clearly a revolver round and from fairly close. As Zachary continued to study the ground, the bodies, the smears, puddles, and trails of blood, the tracks and scuffs in the dirt—the story began to show itself to him.

"Zach..." Timothy began impatiently. "What are you..."

Zachary held up his hand. "For once in your life, Tim, be quiet."

And, surprisingly, the man did.

Zachary spent close to an hour simply studying and examining everything he could. Eleanor, Samantha, and Creed had left the ranch. They'd left in the small cart that Zach had bought not too long ago—and Athena had been pulling them.

A man had left on horseback as well but he'd been running—and bleeding.

After taking in everything, Zachary felt the closest thing to relief he could feel—at least until he was able to feel Samantha warm and safe against him again.

"They're hurt, Tim, but they were okay enough to hook up a wagon and leave." Zachary didn't add that one of them had been bleeding badly. He knew which one it had to be and maybe that's why he didn't say the words out loud. He knew his own heart couldn't stand to whisper the truth out loud.

Samantha was hurt—bad.

"How do you know that?" Timothy demanded. He had went up to the porch and was holding the blanket that Eleanor had been working on the last month in his arms as if somehow it could bring his wife back to him. His knuckles were white as they clutched the fabric. "Where is my wife?"

"I spent a lot of years tracking bad men. I can piece together enough from all this chaos to know that there were three men that rode into the ranch. That rifle has been fired, I smelled gunpowder on the barrel which means Eleanor must have gotten a shot off—I'm guessing into that bastards leg because that wound is too big to be a revolver round. I can't tell details but somehow both these men were killed and the third took off on horseback but right about here—" he'd been following the hoof prints but stopped when a spray of blood joined them. "—he was shot and wounded."

"So, the women fought them off?" Hope bloomed in Tim's voice for the first time.

Zachary clenched his fists. "It seems that way. But like I said, they're hurt. Sam...." He swallowed hard. "Sam's bleeding but she must have been the one to ready the cart and Athena. Athena is her horse and wouldn't have listened well to anyone else—especially with gunshots and blood in the air."

Tim nodded slowly. "So they weren't.. they weren't taken?"

Zachary shook his head, feeling his own relief grow. "No."

But that didn't mean they were safe. Samantha was losing a lot of blood.

"They took the cart toward town—they must be going to the docs. We have to go."

Without another word, Timothy raised the quilt to his face before dropping it back on the porch and striding toward their waiting horses. Both men mounted up and took off like the hounds of hell were on their heels toward town.

"Zach?" Timothy called out. Zachary merely grunted and glanced over at him waiting for him to continue. "Were those Clinton's men?"

Zachary's fists clenched tighter around Blaze's reins as rage swam through his blood. "I didn't recognize them," he admitted. He'd never seen the man with the shot through the chest and the other man had had part of his face missing from the close range gunshot he'd taken. And yet something inside Zachary knew. He quite simply knew. Even if he wasn't gong to say it out loud just now.

"Who else would have attacked the ranch?" Tim questioned. "And if it was Clinton, how did he know we'd be gone and the women would be alone?"

Zachary didn't answer, simply urged Blaze faster and caused Timothy to fall too far behind to maintain conversation. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that when Zachary found out who had attacked his family—who had harmed his wife—there wouldn't be a safe place on earth or in hell for the bastards to hide.

And if Zachary made it into town only to find that Samantha's injuries had been to great..... His gut swam and his swallowed back the hot sting of bile. If that was the case then it would be up to someone else to hunt down those responsible because Zachary wouldn't live without her.

***

Samantha sat in the hard kitchen chair at the doc's house and simply listened to the steady rhythm of the ticking clock upon the wall, losing herself in it. Her thoughts were far too jumbled, too full of fear to clearly piece together.

Clinton had found her.

The pain in her shoulder was worse than any physical pain she had ever endured. Though the doctor had done his best to treat her wound, the bullet was still inside her. Doctor Reynolds had begrudgingly admitted that fishing around and removing the bullet would cause more damage to her shoulder and her range of motion than simply allowing the hunk of metal to remain where it was.

Her shoulder had been cleaned, sewn up, bandaged and her arm was now in a sling to prevent too much movement and aid in healing. Doctor Reynold's had wanted to give her something for the pain but Samantha had refused. Clinton Matthews was somewhere—more of his men were somewhere—she couldn't afford to be delirious with pain medication just now.

She also had the baby to consider.

Samantha laid her hand over her stomach and closed her eyes. The babe was safe. She was safe. Creed was safe and sleeping soundly in the spare room with Eleanor, his leg wrapped up tight in white bandages. And Eleanor was safe. The other woman was still sleeping soundly but she was no longer writhing in pain and gripping her stomach. Doctor Reynolds had thought she was going to go into labor and lose the babe but that hadn't happened.

For the moment everyone was safe.

But it wouldn't last.

Clinton was out there. His men were out there. And Samantha knew deep in her heart that he was coming for her. She never should have stayed in this town. Never should have let herself feel safe. Never should have pulled Zachary, Eleanor, Timothy, or any of her friends into this mess. Everyone would have been better off if Samantha had simply remained on the run and vanished. It would have spared them all Clinton's wrath and his obsession.

Samantha felt tears leak from her eyes and stream down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms tight around herself. A small knock sounded from the doorway and her gaze leapt up as her hand left hand closed around the revolver on the table. She couldn't shoot well left-handed but whoever was coming for her didn't need to know that.

Quickly, she relaxed her hand and released the gun when she saw Catherine—the doctors' new wife—standing in the doorway. "I didn't mean to startle you, Samantha," she assured her, offering a gentle smile. "Are you okay to talk with the sheriff? He's waiting in the shop to have a word with you about today."

Samantha tensed. The sheriff? He was fairly new to town and had shown an interest in Zachary when he had first arrived. Zachary had immediately been suspicious of the man but Sheriff Arthur Thomas had been a decent and fair man during his time in Hackney. He hadn't done or said anything to raise any further suspicions.

But what if?

"Samantha?" Catherine was clearly alarmed. "You're pale as a ghost? Are you okay? I'll tell the sheriff to leave and get the doc..."

Samantha shook her head quickly as she pushed herself to her feet. "No.. No, I'll speak with him."

She had no way to holster her weapon and still have it easily accessible. Cursing the bastard who'd shot her and wondering why he couldn't have aimed for the left shoulder, Samantha grabbed her revolver and simply held it in her left hand as she approached Catherine.

"I'll come with you," Catherine insisted. "You have been through enough today and I don't want him to badger you."

"No," Samantha's response was forceful. She did not want anyone else in harms way if the sheriff turned out to be working with Clinton. If this was a trap, it was better that no one else she considered a friend be caught in it. "Please, go check on Eleanor and Creed. I can speak with the sheriff alone."

Catherine seemed torn a moment before nodding and walking away. Samantha had not yet told anyone details of what had happened at the ranch. She hadn't uttered Clinton's name or her own fears that he and whatever remained of his men were near and watching. Fear clogged her veins and pain rocketed through her shoulder.

God, she wanted her husband. If Zachary could simply wrap her in his strong, steady embrace she would feel less pain—and less fear. But Zachary would not be home until tomorrow and she was a strong woman. Squaring her shoulders and breathing deep, Samantha walked down the staircase into the shop.

Arthur Thomas was standing with his back to her, his hands folded behind him as he gazed out the window. The bottom step creaked when she put weight on it and he turned quickly, his blue eyes widening a bit at the sight of her.

Samantha didn't have to wonder why. Her clothes were covered in blood. Her red curls tangled and unruly on her head. No doubt her face was pale and dirty. And she was holding a revolver aimed steady at chest, though chances of her actually hitting him while aiming left handed from across the room were slim to none—he didn't need to know that.

Quickly he held his hands up in front of him as if to placate her. "Mrs. Marston, I can assure you that I'm no threat. You can put the gun down, ma'am."

"Mr. Thomas, I can assure you that I am not going to do that," she replied, entering the room and leaning against the counter to support her weight. Her body was still weak from blood loss and simply standing caused her head to swim a bit.

He moved a few steps closer. "You're not well, ma'am. Let me help you..."

She laid her finger on the trigger of the revolver and he froze. "You will stay right where you are," she warned. At only three feet away, he was already closer than she would prefer in her weakened state. She did her best to keep the revolver aimed at the shining star on his chest.

He simply nodded and kept his hands raised in front of him palms out doing his best with body language to show he was no threat. "You think I'm working with Clinton, don't you?"

It was Samantha's turn to freeze a bit. She held his gaze refusing to show fear. "Are you?"

He gave a slight shake of the head. "I promise you right now, Mrs. Marston, that I'm not working with Clinton Matthews."

Samantha wasn't convinced. "But you do know him?" Damn, she was so tired. So weak. So scared. All she wanted was her husband. Tomorrow could not come fast enough.

Rage and hatred flashed in Arthur Thomas' blue eyes and Samantha was positive that none of it was directed at her. "Yeah, I know that good for nothing, belly crawling, murdering, fucking bastard." Venom dripped from his words. "And it's my sincere hope that one of his growing number of enemies in this damn town puts a bullet in his head and sends that devil straight to hell."

Samantha blinked several times. Now that she did believe. It seemed Sheriff Arthur Thomas truly did hate Clinton Matthews. But why?

Before she could ask, the door to the shop flew open, banging loudly against the wall. Samantha didn't need to see who it was because she would know that deep, growling voice anywhere.

"Get the hell away from wife."

A/N: Hope y'all enjoyed the chapter! Samantha is definitely not a helpless wallflower and I so love her for that. So often, my characters simply take off and end up writing their own stories (without much help from me at all) and that's what happening here with several of these characters!