He rolled his eyes. “I’ve proven myself enough to warrant a little credit,” he replied. “And I’m the only other person here with a brand and no wanted bulletins.”
Nina seemed to assess Theo. “It might be the safest bet, Patrick.”
Patrick shut his eyes and tried to suppress the pounding in his head.
“You could follow,” Polly offered. “Stay out of sight while Theo and I are inside. I swear to you, Patrick, I’m not looking to run.”
He was calculating the odds, banking on the notion that what Polly wanted most could only be given by him, and that what Theo wanted most was standing next to him. He wouldn’t go anywhere without Nina.
“We’ll go tomorrow,” he said finally, a warning gong sounding in hischest now. And here was the miner’s shiver. Lord, there was nothing to do but forge ahead now. “Theo will act as our go-between while John and I wait out of sight, watching the exits.”
“And me,” Nina added. Before he could protest, she crossed her arms over her chest and said, “I seem to remember you saying that I’d ‘go where I wanted.’ I won’t stay behind all day waiting on the rest of you.”
Patrick pressed the tips of his fingers into his forehead. Everyone in the room seemed to be waiting, perched on the edge.
John was noticeably quiet. Patrick wondered how long he’d hold his tongue.
“Fine,” Patrick relented, feeling as though he’d lost his grip on the chains, the whole pulley tumbling free. “Fine.”
Through the dust motes, Polly held herself tall. “I’ll prove myself to you, Pat.”
He gave her a dark look before turning away. “You’ve already proven yourself to me.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREEDONNY
Dusk was swallowing Kenton Hill.
Donny imagined the jaws of the earth opening, cradling them in the hollows of its mouth. Light petered out of his mind. He could smell the night frost on the air, feel the collapse of the day. It was orange and pearlescent and then suddenly leaden.
Half of Kenton stood in Main Street, armed to holy hell in whatever they’d drudged from the drains and their wardrobes. A baker threw a bandolier of ammunition over his shoulder.
One of the miner boys, just sixteen, held only a pickaxe and the arrogance of youth. Steam bled from his nose like a horse behind the starting gate.
There were women in their housecoats, in their aprons and church wear alike. They’d run the last time Kenton had been invaded, and they were loath to do so again.
Briggs shifted at Donny’s side, leaned in to speak into his ear. “Here they come,” he said. “Armed.”
“How many?”
“Six.”
“Lord,” Gunner sniggered. “Almost feel bad for ’em, don’t you? It ain’t hardly fair.”
“Don’t shoot unless you have to, boys,” Donny reiterated, a silver bullet pinched between his fingers. The hum he felt at its touch was muted, as though the ink in his blood was dulling by the second.
Patrick, where are you?a near-constant refrain.
“Ah, where’s the sport in it?” Gunner bit. Violence leaked out into the air.
“This ain’t war,” Tess said, subdued now. The brigade must be drawing close. “It’s familial discord.”
Gunner scoffed. “My family’s here beside me,” he said, and Donny heard the rack of the hammer.
“Please, Ma,” Donny said to her. “Go inside.”
But she wouldn’t. She put a hand on his shoulder, there for a brief moment and then gone. “You speak, Donny,” she said to him, her voice cracking. “Go on.” She sounded to Donny these days as though she were vanishing.
Donny stepped forward and wondered if he looked the way Patrick looked, the way his father had looked. Behind him, a hundred or so chests inflated.
