Mail Order Annie - A Historical Mail Order Bride Romance Novel (Mail Order Romance - Book 1 - Benjamin and Annie) (11 page)

             
Forsythe made another giant effort to fling Moran off of him, but this time the maneuver failed, and Moran inched closer than ever to subduing him irrevocably. At his last extremity, Forsythe managed to weasel one of his hands free and squirm it down to his waist. The next instant, Anne saw a flash of bare metal in the light of day, and a blade flew through the air toward Moran’s head. Forsythe focused all his ire behind the driving of this blade in Moran’s direction, and in his alarm at the new and present danger of the knife, Moran let loose his grip on Forsythe and seized the knife hand by the wrist with both his huge fists to prevent it coming any closer. This development gave Forsythe the additional advantage of a shift in weight, and once more he tossed Moran over so that he could push the knife down into him from above. Droplets of sweat burst out on Moran’s forehead from the exertion of fighting the knife away, and Forsythe growled through bared teeth like a hyena in his face. Closer the knife crept to Moran’s throat, and Anne trembled and screamed in terror at the outcome looming terribly before her. This can’t be happening, she thought impotently. This can’t be real. The power of Moran’s arms and hands did not arrest the knife’s advance, and Forsythe would surely have succeeded in bringing it to its ultimate conclusion had Moran not bethought himself to duplicate Forsythe’s trick of knocking him off. He tossed one of his legs up at the same time that he bucked with his hips. He did not throw Forsythe away as expertly, but did accomplish the aim of rolling him sideways, so that once more the two men toppled and grappled over and over in the dirt, clutching at each other in the embrace of death. This episode ended where it began, with Forsythe on top of Moran, but Moran saw a stone embedded in the ground just next to his head, and brought the hand that clutched the knife down on it with maximum force, eliciting a cry of pain and surprise from Forsythe. Again, he pounded Forsythe’s knife hand against the rock, and again and again, until the smashed and bloody knuckles finally relaxed and the knife fell into the grass. Forsythe tried to pick it up, but Moran, emboldened by his achievement, flung him bodily and he landed some yards distance away with a sickening thump. Forsythe bounded to his feet with cat-like agility, and the next instant, his right hand flew to his gun belt. Moran saw his intention and, feeling the sudden vulnerability of finding himself unarmed, exhibited a fleeting confusion about how to react. Like lightning, he launched himself at Forsythe and collided with him just as the smaller man loosened his weapon from its holster. Moran gripped Forsythe’s wrist with both his hands again in the same frantic effort to control the movement of the gun. Both men pushed at it, trying to compel it away from themselves and toward the other. The barrel of the gun waved wildly in all directions, first up, then down, now left, now right. Somewhere in midair, it went off with a devastating bang, and the bullet whizzed through the air and crashed into the door post of the cabin just inches from Anne’s head. She darted around behind the house and hid, peeking out at the two straining figures locked in their terrible struggle. Once, she glanced around stupidly for some weapon to assist Moran in the fight but, seeing nothing, she only cowered there, mesmerized and frozen. The men’s mutual abhorrence now equalized any differences in strength between them, and neither could gain any advantage. Exhausted, they fell to the ground, still embracing and grunting in their separate attempts to take control of the gun.

             
Incrementally, Moran advanced his hands up from Forsythe’s wrist, over his knuckles to his fingers where, through enormous effort, he worked to prize Forsythe’s fingers from the handle of the pistol. One by one, he peeled the fingers away, until he freed enough of the gun to release Forsythe’s hand with one of his and grab the pistol by its barrel. Then he yanked the gun completely out of Forsythe’s grip. He brought his fist, clenched around the hard steel of the gun, down hard on the side of Forsythe’s head and, tearing himself bodily from Forsythe’s embrace, lumbered to his feet, leaving Forsythe dazed on the ground. Holding the pistol ineffectually by its barrel and making no attempt to turn it on its owner, Moran took a step back and aimed a vicious kick at the prostrate man’s midsection. A wave of nausea swept over Anne as she heard the crack of a rib and the toe of Moran’s boot dented the side of Forsythe’s chest. Another calculated kick drove the air from his belly, and the third, directed specially at Forsythe’s head, sent him rolling and writhing in the dust.

             
Moran restrained himself then, hauling himself up to his full height and staggered away. He tossed the gun as far away into the grass behind the cabin as his arm would fling it. Anne sighed audibly with relief as he stumbled, panting and wheezing, back to the corner of the barn, where he leaned his shoulder against the corner post and closed his eyes. Watching him gratefully, Anne only belatedly noticed Forsythe rising to his feet and, with incredible momentum, rushed the slumped, relaxed figure of Moran from behind. Anne called out a warning to Moran, but the sound escaped her lip too late, and the two men grappled and plummeted into abandoned wrestling again.

             
At the limit of their strength, the two men fought now from sheer hatred alone, and the greater malevolence and spite of Webster Forsythe now gave him the impetus he needed to best the older, more compassionate Moran. Where Moran held himself back from completely subduing Forsythe, much less killing him with his own pistol, Forsythe entertained no such reservations, and clearly intended to make an end of Benjamin Moran if he could only gain the opportunity. Both men now struggled to catch their breath, and their wheezing gasps came with small cries of desperation as they fought the ultimate battle of their lives. In the end, Forsythe gained the upper position again, and this time, nothing could stop him from imposing all his noxious villainy on his luckless opponent. In one monstrous burst of power, he swung his arm up and wedged his elbow into Moran’s neck, then leaned all his weight on it, cutting Moran’s breath short until it ceased altogether. Moran struggled mightily, but his ability to counter this dreadful outcome dwindled steadily with the slackening of his breath, until he could fight back no longer, and his eyes glazed over in submission. Anne herself struggled for air as she watched Moran succumb to Forsythe’s wicked efforts, but she could not act. No, she cried inwardly. No, it cannot be. It cannot end, not like this. Not when we have come so close to so much happiness. Evil cannot triumph in this way. It’s impossible. She found herself only able to look on in horror as Moran weakened and eventually fell slack in Forsythe’s arms. A final, monstrous shiver contorted Moran’s body, all his muscles jerking and quivering at once, before he fell deathly still.

             
Forsythe remained pressed down on top of him for several eternal minutes, his arm choking the breath from his throat, for what seemed to Anne a long time after Moran lay lifeless on the ground. Only with great reluctance did he seem to disengage himself from his fallen enemy, and when he stood over the body, grimacing down his hatred on its motionless form, he still displayed his toothy, wolfen snarl at it. From her hiding place, Anne looked helplessly at the shape of her groom, seeking despondently for any sign of movement in his chest. She wished she could close her eyes and die with him, so that she could avoid thinking about what her life might be without him, but she could not tear her eyes away from him.

             
So great was her distress, and so riveted were her eyes on the body of Moran, that she only noticed Forsythe stalking toward her when he appeared half-way across the yard. He stared at her as he approached, his face completely altered in its mask of evil from the smooth consideration of previous days. All his feigned kindness and attentiveness were gone, and now she could bear no misunderstanding of his real opinion of her or his true intentions.

             
She recovered her sense of impending doom enough to turn and run, but he anticipated her, and reached her before she made three paces. She shrieked as he seized her with an arm around her waist, and in a trice, he scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder like a heavy sack of grain. She beat her fists against his back and kicked her feet at his chest and head, screaming wildly and calling him all sorts of profane names, but to no avail. He held her by the knees as he carted her back to the house. He kicked the door open and stomped inside, then he kicked the door closed again behind them and the darkness of the cabin descended over them. He lugged her over to the bed and hurled her down on top of it. Anne cried out as she fell back, her hands brushing the fabric of her wedding dress and the scratchy wool of Moran’s suit underneath her. Forsythe grunted disgustedly at unburdening himself from her weight, and shook himself free of exertion for the first time since the start of the fight. He clomped the hard heels of his boots on the bare floor boards as he surveyed the room, now master of the domain he fought to dominate. His eye revolted against the crude simplicity of the cabin, and he sniffed offensively wherever his gaze rested. He turned his back on Anne, unbuckled his gun belt, and flung it onto the table with a clatter.

             
“I’m finished wasting time with you,” he growled, almost under his breath. “I tried to be nice about it once, but now that I see what you’re really made of, I’ll just go ahead and treat you the way you deserve to be treated. It’s time you learned not to trifle with me, and to learn your real place around here.”

             
Anne watched him, petrified in horror as he came toward her. He unbuttoned the fly of his pants as he moved to the foot of the bed, burning her with his wicked eyes. She could not move from her position, sprawled back across her own wedding costume, for fear and revulsion at his cruel mendacity. When he climbed onto the bed, looming over her on his knees, she tried to kick at him, but he pinned her ankles down onto the quilt and even pried them apart. Before she could gather any courage to fight back, he dove on top of her, crushing her onto the bed.

             
In dreadful alarm, a tremendous surge of mortal intensity erupted from Anne’s body, and with all her strength, she planted her hands against his chest and pushed with every fiber of her being. She hurled Forsythe away from her with superhuman power, and he staggered backward, off of the bed and across the floor. So sudden was her movement, and so unexpected by his smug sense of his own victory, that he teetered on his feet for a fraction of an instant before losing his balance and falling. The back of his head cracked on the edge of the table, and he collapsed onto the floor in a daze.

             
Not daring to hesitate, Anne leapt from the bed, sending her dress, her broach and her gloves flying. She dashed to the doorway and lifted the long, heavy rifle from its hooks. The barrel swung clumsily in her hands, but she gave herself no time to consider its proper handling. She clutched the barrel with one hand and the trigger grip with the other, and pointed the rifle in Forsythe’s direction, just as he regained his feet.

             
He rubbed the back of his head and scowled at her as he stood up, holding onto the corner of the table. He sneered contemptuously at the rifle in her hands, correctly assuming that she had no idea how to use it properly. “You better know how to work that thing before you go waving it around,” he purred. “You’re likely to hurt somebody.” He started toward her, his arms and legs swinging with easy self-assurance.

             
She did not bother to try to lift the gun up or to aim it at him. She simply pointed the barrel in his general direction and squeezed the trigger. The explosion of the charge deafened and bewildered her, and in the cloud of smoke that obscured the room, the rifle jumped out of her shaking hands and hit the floor with another calamitous crash the startled her as much as the gunshot itself. She did not try to run, but just stood stock still and awaited her fate while the smoke wafted around the room and eventually dissolved.

             
When the air cleared, she saw Forsythe lying on his back on the floor, a pool of blood spreading around the remains of his head. She studied him carefully for a long time, trying to understand where his face had gone. The horrendous silence throbbed in her ears, and she wondered if the gunshot might have rendered her permanently deaf, because no sound penetrated the stillness through the cabin walls.

             
At last, she became distantly aware of a hoarse croaking noise. Upon more careful attention, she recognized it as a husky male cough coming from outside. She jerked the cabin door open and ran outside, to find Moran lurching across the yard toward her. She reached him and they fell into each other’s arms, laughing and crying at the same time. Moran pushed her away briefly, inspecting her face and petting her wet cheeks, brushing the disheveled hair from her forehead and drinking in the sight of her with greedy eyes. “Oh, thank God!” he gasped. “Thank God!”

             
She laughed, with hot tears streaming down her face and washing all the horror and apprehension away. Finally, Moran wrapped his thick sinewy arm around her shoulders and escorted her back to the cabin. He bent to look inside, but she hung back and refused to cross the threshold, her fingers trailing reluctantly from his hand. The reality that she had actually killed someone slowly wormed its way into her mind, and her heart quailed inside her. She imagined that she really had arrived in the Wild West, now that she not only witnessed a shoot-out as an onlooker, but actually taken part in one. When he spied the body on the floor, Moran released her hand and went all the way in. He bent down and studied the faceless head with the same curious bewilderment. After a thorough inspection, he picked up the rifle from the floor and came back out to her. He glanced ruefully down at the rifle in his hand. “Nice shot,” he muttered ironically. “I’ll have to make sure to teach you how to use it properly. We’ll get another one in town, so you have one with you here in the cabin at all times. I should have thought of that before now. That’s twice now I’ve left you unarmed. I won’t make that mistake again.”