Free A Lady Like Sarah by Margaret Brownley

heard the unmistakable sound of Owen completing God's name—the last task of the living.
    The silence that followed was broken by a strangled gasp behind him. He turned to find Sarah standing a few feet away, her eyes round in horror.
     
    Sarah stood on the crest of a hill, staring at the mound of fresh dirt at her feet. She thought about her parents' graves nestled in the arms of a little white church in Texas. Though it had been years since she visited their final resting place, it comÂforted her to know they weren't alone.
    She couldn't imagine anything worse than to be buried out here in the wilderness with only the wind and sky for company.
    Together she and Justin had taken turns digging the grave with the one spade they had. It had been hard work to break through the claylike soil, but no more so than carryÂing the marshal's body up the hill, which Justin did without complaint.
    She'd picked out the site herself, choosing a spot at the base of a sturdy cottonwood whose branches spread far and wide to provide ample shade. The hill commanded an impresÂsive view of the meandering stream below. It would have been easier had she chosen a resting place closer to camp where the soil was softer. But it was too close to the water's edge and she worried about possible flood waters.
    She helped Justin cover the grave with rocks to discourÂage animals from digging up the remains. Then she wandered through the brown prairie grass to pick blue buffalo clover, which she scooped up by the roots and replanted near the grave.
    The air, heavy as a wet wool blanket, was hard to breathe. Even the shade beneath the tree offered little respite from the heat of the day. Her throat felt like it was lined with burlap and her eyes stung, partly from the oppressive heat but mostly from unshed tears.
    Justin's soothing voice washed over her as he read from the Bible. "Ashes to ashes . . ." Despite the heat, he wore his collar and black frock coat, which made him look even more imposing than usual.
    After a long while, he closed the Good Book. In all the confusion that had followed Owen's death, he'd forgotten to handcuff her. Not wanting to remind him, she held her hands behind her back.
    "I prayed for him to get well," she said. The accusations in her voice crept in unbidden, but she didn't care. God had let her down, yet again, and she didn't care who knew it.
    "Your prayers were answered," he said softly. "Owen is well. He's with his heavenly Father."

Eight
     
    Sarah couldn't move, her hands tied behind her back. She struggled to pull free, to no avail. Looking up, she gasped. The hangin ' rope descended from a beam overhead. She watched in horror as the circle of hard fiber cord fell over her head. Her throat closed in protest. She opened her mouth, but the rope at her neck prevented her scream . . .
    A male voice cut through her sleep-dazed brain. "Don't move."
    Her eyes flew open. A mean-looking hombre stood over her. Her mind scrambling, she fought to sit up, but he held her down with a boot to her chest.
    A short distance away, Justin lay on his back and stared at the shotgun pointed straight at him, mere inches from his nose.
    A deep baritone voice belonging to a barrel of a man said, "Hold it right there, mister."
    Sarah recognized the two gunmen as the Mitchell brothÂers. The voice belonged to the older of the two, a round-bellied man with a pock-marked face and a broken nose, named Pete. His brother, called Shorty though he stood over six feet tall, was thin as a snake on stilts and had the dispoÂsition to match. A scar ran down the length of his cheek to his chin, making his face appear lopsided.
    Pete prodded Justin with the barrel of his weapon. "Throw down your gun," he drawled.
    Justin didn't move a muscle. "I-I don't have a gun."
    The man's face darkened. "A lawman without a gun? What do you take me for? A fool?"
    "Leave him alone, you—" Sarah held back the name that sprang to the tip of her tongue. Justin