CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Tears
"I ain't hurtin' her none," Sweeny snarled. He knelt next to Margaret. "Am I, pretty princess?"
Margaret swallowed hard. "I need—I need to use the-the outhouse," she said softly.
"You just void yerself right there," Sweeny answered.
"You—you don't want me to ruin my wedding dress, do you?" She tried to force a smile, but it was more a twitch. "You don't want me to smell bad, do you?"
Sweeny glanced at O'Connell. "It'd be okay to let her go out, ain't it?"
O'Connell shrugged. "Don't know why not. She runs away or does anything stupid, and I decapitate her new husband." He held up a large knife and grinned widely. "Slowly. Very slowly."
Margaret swallowed hard. She glanced at Heath.
With both Sweeny and O'Connell's attention on Margaret, he dared to give her an almost imperceptible wink.
"I won't do anything stupid," she promised.
Sweeny untied her, then held tight to her arm as they went out the barn door. He held a lantern in his other hand. They walked around the corner of the barn. "There ain't no outhouse. You just go right here."
"May I—may I go behind that tree?"
"As long as I can always see some part of you."
Margaret walked behind a nearby tree and made sure her left foot was where it could be seen. Then she reached into her hidden pocket and took out the revolver Heath had gotten her in Sacramento. He had insisted she keep it on her until they got to San Francisco. Now she was glad he had, even though she'd been petrified Sweeny would feel it when he'd run his hands over her. He probably hadn't even considered the possibility that a woman would carry a gun.
No, she wasn't going to do anything stupid. She was going to do the only thing she could possibly do to save herself and Heath—and do it before Mulligan and Diego got back from wherever they went.
Her hands were shaking so badly she wasn't sure she could shoot straight. But she left her left leg visible on the left side of the tree, and then leaned around to the right. "Sweeny, I need some help," she said as sweetly as she could, knowing he'd come running and not be prepared for what she planned. Or at least she hoped so.
Sure enough, Sweeny hurried over to her. She waited until he was about ten feet away, then leaned out, both hands holding the revolver as she'd been taught, and pulled the trigger.
She thought she'd hit him, but he continued towards her, pulling out his gun as he did. Her hands shook so badly, she was sure she couldn't get off another shot.
And then he simply collapsed. His knees folded and he almost gracefully fell to the ground.
Margaret didn't move for a moment, but she knew she had to. She stepped forward and took his gun from him. He had dropped the lantern, so she sat it upright and moved it into the clearing around the barn. And then she went into the darkness and waited.
As she waited, she recited a mantra over and over. Give me strength, Heath. Give me strength. Give me strength, Heath. Give me strength.
It wasn't too long before she heard O'Connell coming. He looked around, trying to see through the dark, his gun in his hand. "Sweeny!" he yelled.
She stood in the dark, gripped the gun as she'd been taught, aimed, and fired.
He fell immediately, but he wasn't dead. He stood and pointed his gun towards her.
A shot whizzed past her. Trying hard to control her nerves, she aimed at him again. She pulled the trigger. And held her breath.
O'Connell grabbed his chest and fell backwards.
Margaret waited where she was, watching and trying not to breathe loudly.
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Heath was frantic. He'd heard four shots. Was Margaret okay? If so, why hadn't she come back? What was going on?
He rubbed his wrists against the ropes, but all that did was further rip his raw skin. Then he tried to rock the chair. If he could make it fall hard enough, perhaps the wood would break. He threw his body from one side to the other, harder and harder, ignoring the pain of the burning ropes shredding his skin and the feeling that his brain might explode.
The barn door opened. Heath risked moving his head to see who was there.
Margaret.
He expelled the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Are you okay?"
Margaret walked slowly to him. She wrapped her arms around him. She couldn't speak—all she could do was tremble and shiver.
Helplessness consumed Heath once again. He needed to hug her, to comfort her, but he could do nothing. Nothing at all. "Did you shoot 'em?"
"Yes," she said.
"I wish I could hug you. I wish I could hold you." He tried to convey his feelings with his eyes. "But you did the right thing. You were very brave."
"I wasn't brave. I was scared to death."
Heath gave her his half-smile. "If you ain't scared, you can't be brave. Being brave means you do what you gotta do even though you're afraid." He locked eyes with her. "You were very brave, my wife. Very brave."
Finally, Margaret released him and drew in a noisy breath. "I need to get you untied before Mulligan and Diego return."
"McConnell had a knife," Heath reminded her.
"Did he take it outside with him?"
"I don't know." He glanced at her. "Are they dead?"
"I'm pretty sure." She shivered.
"You had no choice, sweetie."
"I know."
"Can you go check their pockets? They probably got knives." He sighed. "I got one in my pocket, but I don't think you can get to it."
She felt his pocket and felt the knife, but she couldn't get it out. "I'll go check them."
"I'm sorry," he said, knowing how hard it would be for her to touch the dead men.
She took Sweeny's gun out of her pocket. "I'll leave this here, just in case you need it before I get back."
Heath smiled but didn't try to tell her he was tied too tight to do anything.
It seemed like she was gone for hours. Heath kept swallowing his panic, kept telling himself she was fine. Sweeny and O'Connell were dead. He hadn't heard any horses approaching, so Mulligan and Diego weren't back yet. Everything was fine.
And then, finally, the barn door opened. He stole a peek. It was Margaret.
She hurried over to him, carrying a pocketknife. She leaned over him and gently and carefully cut through the ropes, even though her hands were trembling. It took longer than Heath had thought, and he was worried they'd have more unwelcome guests soon. But, finally, his left hand was free.
Heath stretched and shook the hand, trying to get blood circulating there again. "Here," he finally said. "I'll finish."
She handed him the knife.
He pushed the knife under the ropes on his right hand, stabbing himself a bit. As he turned the blade to cut, the rope burned into his skin. But he continued to cut as quickly as he could, not being as careful as Margaret had been. And then that hand was free. Again, he worked it to regain feeling.
Heath bent over to free his ankles—and fell forward. He landed headfirst, the chair on top of him.
"Heath!" Margaret fell on the floor next to him. "Are you okay?"
"D-dizzy as hell," he answered, shivering. "C-can you c-cut my ankles fr-free?"
"Yes." Margaret worked as quickly as she could, and soon had him free. She lifted the chair off of him.
Blood still oozed from the back of his head. "Oh, Heath. You're bleeding."
"I-I know. D-don't think I c-can move." His hands trembled, and he didn't attempt to move or get up.
"Heath!" Margaret lay next to him. "Are you okay?"
"C-cold," he answered. "D-dizzy."
"You just lay there." Margaret struggled to move some haybales to offer them a bit of protection from someone coming through the door. Then she gathered the guns and lay next to Heath. He still shivered. Badly. It was almost a convulsion. And it scared her.
He'd lost a lot of blood, and she feared he was going into shock. She needed to warm him. She hurried to the rear of the barn where the horses were and found three saddle blankets. She brought them back over and covered him with them.
Still, he shivered. She lifted the blankets and lay under them, on top of him, trying to spread her body warmth to him. Of course, she was cold, too, but figured her body could still help warm him.
"I-I'm sorry," he whispered between trembles.
"Don't be sorry." She moved her arm so she could touch his hand.
"H-hap-py h-honey m-moon."
She hugged him as tightly as she could, her tears falling on his shoulders.
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