Despite his hideous wound, the crouched figure hadn’t given up. Trapped at the end of the shafts, with nowhere to go, he elected to try it all on a single, desperate throw. He punched with his left hand at Ryan’s knife, jabbing with his own shorter blade as he dived toward his assailant.
Ryan had been expecting it and parried the clumsy charge easily, thrusting the panga home under the guarding ribs, feeling the tip catch the notch between two of the spinal vertebrae. Twisting his wrist with all of his power, he drove the eighteen inches of cold steel into the man’s body, twisting it a second time as he withdrew it, knowing without any doubt that he’d won. The man was dying, his life hemorrhaging away through the long slit in his stomach.
But it wasn’t over.
As he started to topple from the rig, the one good eye already starting to cloud over, the slender man grabbed at the sleeve of Ryan’s coat.
He’d been in the act of backing away, already starting to sheathe his own bloodied blade, his concentration wandering, thinking how he’d be able to get back to the relative safety of the driver’s box.
His balance had been precarious as the hearse bounced and jolted, fishtailing around a steep curve, the rear wheel on the near side spinning in singing space.
Now, with the mortally wounded man gripping his coat like a drowning man snatching at a spar, Ryan knew with a sick certainty that he was going over and off.
Using every ounce of his strength and agility, he managed to throw himself forward, knocking away the clinging fingers, reaching out for the back of the galloping leader, feeling slick, powerful flesh pounding under him.
The attacker slipped off, body draped across the wag hitch for a few thundering steps, then slipping away and vanishing under the hooves and wheels.
But Ryan knew he was safe.
For five or six seconds.
Until the sliced strips of leather finally parted under the strain of the galloping horse.
The powerful animal broke away from the rest of the team, carrying Ryan Cawdor, helpless, with it.
Chapter Fourteen
Mildred was stewing up some apples, helped by Dean. Krysty was sitting in the swing seat out on the porch, watching the morning shadows of the house shorten as the sun rose steadily behind her.
Jak had gone out to finish the milking, walking back toward her, slightly bowlegged from the weight of the two brimming buckets. His stark white hair blazed like a distress flare, tumbling over his shoulders.
“How do you think he’s getting on?” asked the young boy in the kitchen, putting the big iron spoon to his lips, wincing at its heat. He blew hard to cool it so that he could taste the sweetened fruit.
“Who?” Krysty asked, as if she didn’t know.
“Dad.”
“Thought you might’ve meant Doc.”
“Or John,” Mildred interrupted. “And stop licking that spoon, Dean.”
“Tastes good.”
“Not the point. You can spread germs that way.”
The boy looked at her, the spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. “What’s germs, Mildred?”
“Germs are” She laughed. “Never mind.”
Krysty stood. “And the answer is that we think that they’re all all right. All right?”
Dean grinned, lifting his left hand to push back an errant curl of black hair from over his blue eyes, sending a frisson through Krysty at the strong similarity between the boy and his father.
Jak had put the buckets of fresh milk on the back porch and he came into the kitchen, stretching. “Apples smell good,” he commented.
“No sign of life?” Krysty asked.
“Nothing.”
Mildred was washing her hands in the sink. “No sign of the old goat, either?”
The albino smiled. “Doc’s fine. Got Judas to keep eye on him. Think needs time alone.”
“We all do,” Mildred agreed, drying her hands on a faded linen cloth. “But I guess Doc needs it more than most. Loss like he suffered comes hard.”
Jak turned to stare at the black woman, his ruby eyes drilling into her face. “I know that.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Jak. Me and my big mouth. Least Doc’s had some time to get over it. Still only weeks, really, since Christina and baby Jenny were”