ONE BULLET MORE
Author's Note: This is horrible and awful and people shouldn't read it, but sometimes a "what if" won't let go.
He broke the glass with the butt of his rifle and started shooting. They were out there, the first of who knew how many. Those men had tried to scare them off and burn them out. Now they were just going to kill them all and have done with it.
He wasn't about to let them. If it came down to them against him and the family, he'd do what he had to. He had no choice.
Two of them had ridden up to the house and taken cover behind the water barrel at the corner of the barn. There would be more, he knew it. He fired again and again, ignoring their shouts. Did they think they could talk him into coming out so they could shoot him down?
Finally they started returning fire. That was more like it, more what he'd expected. Now nobody was pretending to be anything but exactly what he was.
He had the men pinned down. Maybe they'd give up and ride off, but he wasn't gonna bet on that. They'd been hired to do a job, to get him and the family off the land or put them in it. Either way, they weren't gonna quit until that job was done.
He saw the man behind the barrel fire off a couple more shots, and he realized he wasn't shooting at the house. He was shooting into the air, and the second man was nowhere to be seen. That didn't make sense. Not unless—
He spun just as the door behind him flew open. It was the second man, pistol in hand.
He fired his rifle, and the bullet slammed the man against the wall. He slid to the floor leaving a streak of red down the faded paint. The pistol skittered under the table.
There was the sound of boots on the front porch, and he aimed his rifle at the door, but when he pulled the trigger there was only a click. He'd used his last bullet on the man slumped in the corner behind him. He tossed the rifle aside and grabbed the dead man's pistol just as the front door burst open and the other man rushed in.
"Jarrod!"
He fired straight into the man's chest, dropping him to his knees. Then he realized the man didn't have a gun in his hand. It was in his holster. What had made him come through that door without a prayer of getting through alive? Why hadn't the other man shot him in the back the moment he got into the house?
The man in front of him clutched a handful of bloody gray shirt and looked at him, hazel eyes pleading. "Jarrod," he gasped. "It's me. It's Nick. Your brother, Jarrod. Your brother." He blinked uncomprehendingly when he noticed the dead man in the corner, and then tears started into his eyes. "Heath?"
The gun in his hand, the one he had just shot this man with, had a golden eagle on the polished handle. An eagle. The eagle he'd seen again and again in his dreams. In his nightmares. The eagle. The gun. A gift. A gift for his brother.
"You g-gave it to him," the man kneeling in front of him choked out, and now there was blood on his lips. "Birthday. You gave—"
He caught the man just as he toppled over and clutched him close. Nick. Nick and Heath. He knew them. Nick and Heath, his brothers. No. No, no, no.
"Jarrod?" Nick breathed, reaching trembling fingers up to touch his cheek. "Jarrod, I'm your brother. I'm your br—" His hand fell limply beside him and his breath seeped out into nothingness.
Jarrod. Jarrod Barkley. Nick. Heath. His brothers.
He clutched Nick closer. "Nick?"
Nick was huddled with his head against Jarrod's shoulder as if he were still a little boy seeking comfort after a bad dream.
"Heath?"
Heath was sprawled in the corner, his sky-blue eyes clouded and sightless as their father's had been when Jarrod had closed them that final time.
They were dead. Both dead. And he had killed them.
He tightened his hold on Nick's body, pressing his cheek to the tousled dark hair as sobs tore through him. "Nick. Nick."
Then he realized someone else was sobbing. Someone was pleading for forgiveness.
Dazed, he felt around the floor until he found the gun, the birthday present he'd given his brother. His dead brother.
He picked it up and pointed it at Libby. She was standing there with tears streaming down her face and both hands pressed over her open mouth.
"You knew," he choked out. "You knew who they were."
Her breath came in harsh, wordless gasps.
"You wanted this to happen."
"No, no," she wailed, terror now in her eyes. "I just wanted you!"
For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't take his aim off her. Then, blinded with tears, he turned the gun and pressed the end of the barrel against his temple. His smile was painful, tearing at the grief-twisted muscles of his face.
"You can have whatever's left."
"No!" she shrieked, and he pulled the trigger.
OOOOO
Jarrod woke with a gasp and sat up. For a moment, he was still except for the frantic heaving of his chest and the darting of his terror-filled blue eyes. Then he started feeling around on the ground and through his blankets, faster and more desperate with each second.
Nick pushed himself away from the tree he'd been dozing against and went to him.
"Jarrod," he said softly, kneeling down to grab his hands. "You don't need that. You don't need that now."
Jarrod stared at him, and then he let out a shaky breath. "Nick?"
"You're all right, Jarrod. Everything's all right. Heath has his gun now. You don't need it."
Jarrod put his hands on either side of Nick's face, searching his eyes, and then he clutched at the front of Nick's shirt, right over his heart. "There was— There was—"
"Nothing happened. You ran out of bullets. You didn't shoot me. You didn't shoot anybody." Nick pressed his hand flat, letting him feel the steady beat, letting him feel there was only wholeness there.
Jarrod drew a shuddering breath, and then he nodded. "Heath?"
"Right over there."
Jarrod followed Nick's gaze toward where Heath was wrapped up in his blanket with his head pillowed on his saddle. For a moment Heath was still as death, and then he exhaled heavily and rolled over onto his side. Jarrod smiled faintly.
"He's fine," Nick said. "See?"
"Yeah." Jarrod just stood there for a while longer, seeing nothing but his nightmare. "If that rifle had had one bullet more . . ." He looked at Heath and then back at Nick. "Just one."
"Thank God it didn't."
"Thank God," Jarrod echoed.
Nick tugged his older brother toward his own blankets. "Now why don't you go on back to sleep, huh?"
Jarrod shook his head, and that haunted look came back into his eyes. "No. Not sleep." He licked his dry lips. "Not sleep."
"All right. Coffee then."
"Yeah. Coffee."
Jarrod sat down with his back against the tree, and Nick went to stir up the smoldering fire. When he came back with two cups of coffee, Jarrod had fallen once more into an exhausted sleep. Heath was sitting up.
"I suppose you heard that," Nick said, going over to him.
"Yeah." Heath glanced at Jarrod. "I figured I'd let you handle it this time."
"This one wasn't so bad. He seems to be doing better." Nick sat on the ground next to him and handed him a cup. "Drink up."
"I guess he was right saying we ought to ride home the long way instead of taking the train. This ought to give him a little time to get past what happened."
"And what didn't."
They sat and drank, neither of them finding anything more to say.
Nick finally tossed the dregs of his coffee into the grass and stood up.
"You ought to get some sleep yourself," Heath said, putting down his own cup. "I've had mine."
Nick looked over at Jarrod and shook his head. "Nah, I've had too much coffee to sleep now. I'll just watch the stars awhile."
"Me, too. It might be a long night." Heath got Jarrod's blanket and put it over him. "How many more times are we gonna have to tell him we're all right?"
"As many as it takes, boy," Nick said as they settled themselves under the tree on either side of their older brother, shoulder to shoulder with him as he slept on. "As many as it takes."
I always thought Libby got off a little too easily in The Man From Nowhere. Jarrod could very easily have killed his brothers before he recognized them, and she would have let it happen. It seemed very much like she would have shot Heath at least if she hadn't been afraid she would hit Jarrod by accident. I can't imagine Jarrod never considered what might have happened if he had had one bullet more.