Chapter Seventeen
LUCAS MUST DIE, Duvall thought.
He clenched a bear grease-smeared rag and stroked the musket barrel, contemplatively.
I have got to kill him.
He looked about, startled.
Had he spoken the last thought aloud?
He eyed the musket’s firing mechanism, wary for dirt or sign of damage. That damned b***h had caught him soundly with that cauldron, squarely across the barrel. Lucky she hadn’t dented it.
He sighted for practice, drawing a bead on a distant trembling branch.
“Boom,” he whispered, wishing he were aiming at something else.
He returned to his greasing.
The piece was thoroughly coated, but he continued to stroke, pleasured and soothed by the motion of his hand. It calmed him, reminding him of what needed to be done.
Lucas must die.
*2*
Duvall.
The name gutte
