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He nodded, unable to push a single syllable up his parched throat.
Killian let out a long breath. "Then she's gone."
Skeeter nodded. He waited a heartbeat for Killian to shoot him. When he didn't, Skeeter relaxed. "If it helps, Mose never liked her anyway."
"No." The word was spoken softly, but with a razor-sharpness that clutched Skeeter's bowels. "That doesn't help much." Without another word, Killian shoved past Skeeter and barreled through the crowd, disappearing through the open canvas flap.
Skeeter breathed a sigh of relief. He'd lived through it. Thank God. "Hey!" he yelled out. "I ain't been laid yet."
A whore came runnin'.
Killian strode down the road toward his cabin. It took everything inside him, every scrap of self-control he possessed, not to break into a run.
Shoving the door open, he burst into the small, darkened room. Shadows lay heaped along the walls and floor. Moonlight sliced through the dirty windows, writhed on the wrinkled sheets, and gave the bed an eerie blue glow.
A scrap of paper caught his eye. It was on the table,
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stuck in place by the sharp point of a hunting knife. He grabbed the cold leather handle and yanked the knife out of the wood. Picking up the scrap of paper, he moved to the circle of lamplight to read it.
You should have helped me.
Fear backhanded him. His heart started beating so fast, he could barely think. Sweat broke out on his forehead, a cold, itchy trail.
She'll die out there.
The thought churned through his mind, brought a sick, sinking feeling to his stomach.
He tried not to care, tried to tell himself it was all for the best. What did he care if she died out there? What was she to him?
He shuddered. Now, there was a question he didn't want to answer. Didn't dare answer.
He crushed the note in his hand and threw it at the wall. It hit with a scratchy whisper and floated to the floor.
He fisted his hands and looked at the closed door.
Let her go, you fool.
But he couldn't. God help him, he couldn't let her go into the desert all alone. Out there, with no weapon and no guide, she wouldn't last two days.
"Christ," he hissed, already moving toward the door. It wasn't the smart thing to do, but he couldn't help himself. He had to go after her.
Amazingly, there was something of the hero left in him after all.
He grabbed the lantern off the table and barreled out of his cabin, running for the tunnel. He plunged into the darkness and stopped, his breathing coming in great, heaving gasps.
"Lainie?" he called out. The name vibrated through the stone wall and mocked him.
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No one answered.
Fear clutched his heart in a cold grip. He ran into the tunnel, splashing light along the walls and floor as he went. Up and down the twisting corridors, he ran calling out her name until his voice was hoarse.
Finally he broke stride and stumbled to a tired halt. He'd searched every passageway, every turn, and still he hadn't found her. He sagged against the damp stone wall, breathing heavily.
"Lainie," he wheezed, and bowed his head, fighting the pain of a sudden, blinding headache. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, concentrating on the simple task. Anything to keep the image of her out of his mind, but of course, it didn't work. Everywhere he turned, he saw her. In the shadows along the wall, in the splash of light along the floor. And her words, so soft and musical, pounded through his mind like some rhythmic metronome, thudding through his heart with every footstep. / need your help ... your help ... your help. . . .
