CHAPTER TWENTY
In the Night
Unlike the sound of Sterling’s insistent pounding, this knocking is quiet, tentative and she has the time to take the Henry from its place and engage the lever. “Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
His voice is strained, almost as if he is in pain and she almost throws the rifle aside in her desperation to open the door to him and take her in his arms. She sees him, the light from the nearby oil lamp casting him in an unearthly shade of sickly yellow. But it is not this which grips her attention, unwilling to let go. It is the blood. He is awash with it and his face is as pale as a corpse.
“Oh, my dear Lord,” she cries and would hold him if it wasn’t for the fear of being covered in all that gore herself. She takes his hand and draws him in. He shuffles forward, like on
