Free Debra Holland by Stormy Montana Sky Page B

walked into the entry of his sister’s house, the scent caught him first—the coppery smell of blood, familiar from his years as a reporter. His gut tightened. “Emily!”  
    On the left side of the dark paneled entry was Lewis’ so-called library, on the other, the parlor. Following his nose, Ant strode into the parlor.
    He saw a crumpled heap in a blue dress lying half behind the settee, black button boots sprawled. “Em!” Ant rushed around the furniture, then halted.  
    His sister lay in a pool of blood that soaked into the Aubusson carpet and spread onto the wooden floor. A diagonal slash ripped across her throat, and her eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
    I’m too late.
    Ant didn’t have to drop to his knees, feel for her pulse. He’d seen enough dead bodies. He forced down the emotion that wanted to boil out of his throat into a roar of grief and rage, and made himself study the scene like the reporter he was.
    The blood was dark, congealing. Two small footsteps scuffed the edges of the stain next to a big one.
    “David!” Ant whirled, studying the room. He pulled a chair aside to make sure his nephew wasn’t behind it.
    “David!” He raced up the staircase and down the hall to the boy’s room, and burst through the door. When he didn’t see a dead body on the unmade bed, his first feeling was relief. Then he realized the room had been ransacked. Drawers of the bureau pulled open, the clothes inside rumpled. A stocking dangled over one edge.
    In the corner, a sailboat propped against the wall reminded him of David’s last birthday. He’d given the boy the sailboat, then taken him to the park to try it out. Emily had written a poem about the day for David. Sadness choked Ant’s throat.
    He turned and hurried to the master of the house’s room. If he found Lewis, he’d strangle him. But even as the rage and fear propelled him down the hall, he knew what he’d find. Sure enough, the room bore evidence of a hurried departure.
    Just to be sure, he systematically searched the house, but couldn’t find his nephew. Lewis had killed his wife and taken his son. Now David was on the run with a murderer.
    But not for long, David, I promise. I’ll find you and revenge your mother. This I swear!
    Ant held out his hands as if squeezing the life out of Lewis, only to see them covered with blood. He could feel the stickiness on his skin.
    David called to him “Uncle Ant, help me!”
    “David? Where are you?”
    Ant woke with a gasp, his hands raised a few inches, pushing against the bedding. It took a few breaths before he realized he was in his room at Widow Murphy’s, not in Emily’s townhouse. Another nightmare.
    If it’s not Isabella haunting me, then it’s Emily.  
    He rubbed his hands over his face, willing them to stop shaking.
    You’d think I’d be used to the nightmares by now.
    * * *
    David awoke early, when the sun was lightening the dark cabin to shades of gray. He glanced over at the neighboring pallet. Didn’t look like a day his pa would bestir himself. The man sprawled on his back, one hand stretched out, fingertips touching an empty whiskey bottle. The stench of sweat and booze clung to him. His honking snores seemed to shake the flimsy walls.
    David allowed himself a sigh of relief. This morning, he wouldn’t be dragged from his bed and set to do his pa’s bidding, the orders accompanied by blows. From the look and sound of his pa, he could escape for the day.
    A rumbling in his stomach made him toss aside the thin blanket and roll to his feet. He debated carving off a chunk of the rock-hard bread in the crate in the corner of the room, but he knew if his pa wanted food later, and there wasn’t enough, there’d be hell to pay. My hell.
    His pa snorted.
    David froze, heart thumping, waiting to see if his pa moved. When nothing happened, he tucked his slingshot in his pocket along with a knife. He could pick some berries for breakfast. Maybe, after he hobbled the mule on that