CHAPTER 1
Southeastern Colorado Territory, Summer 1873
“All of you, shut up.”
The sharp words cut through the raucous noise, and the whole room seemed to freeze instantly, except that six pairs of startled eyes turned on him in that moment. Brody's hand was poised midway to Val's braid, and she swatted it away. Pasha giggled at them, but stopped when Ivan shot her a stern, warning look. Gregor and Nick had stopped their loud dispute, and sat waiting for their father to speak.
“Ivan, get the children together, and leave. Now.”
Kiryl Balik's voice was harsh, his words short. It was uncharacteristic for him to use such a tone with any of his children, and he hated himself for being so gruff. Yet he had his reasons.
“What's the matter, Pa?” Ivan asked, getting up from his chair at the end of the breakfast table.
“Your mother is not well. All the noise is disturbing her.”
“Then we'll be quieter, won't we?” Ivan looked around at the younger children. Nick and Gregor both nodded in assent, leading the others who began to nod hesitantly.
Val mumbled something about needing to see to her Ma, and started to get up from the table. When she was halfway across the room to her mother's door, Kiryl Balik barked again.
“Valentina, I did not ask you for your help.”
Startled, the eight-year-old girl looked up.
“You didn't have to, Papa. I always help when she's sick.”
“Get out of here,” he hollered, swatting at her with the back of one hand. With a surprised yelp, she dodged the blow and scurried out the door into the yard. The sound of her sobbing cut him to the quick, just as Ivan's confused and accusing stare did.
“Everybody outside,” his oldest said, still unable to break the confused eye-lock they held.
Without question, the remaining four children scrambled into the yard and shut the door again once they were gone. At that point, Ivan walked a few paces closer to him and cleared his throat.
“Pa, what is the matter with you? You've never once raised a hand to any of us.”
“I told you to leave, to take your sisters and brothers and go.”
“Is it Ma? Is she alright?”
Ivan's green eyes pierced straight through to his soul in that moment, and he felt the tears threaten to well in his eyes. For eight years, he'd kept a secret from everyone, and suddenly, he felt as if his oldest boy could see straight through to that dark place he'd hidden the sin. He fought back the tears, grabbed his twenty-year-old by the shoulder, and roughly walked him to the door.
“No, your mother is not alright. She hasn't been this ill since Anya disappeared. Now you get those children out of here. Take them to the stream and do not return until this evening. Do not question me again.”
With no further response, he pushed Ivan outside and barred the door.
“Pa…” Ivan hollered through the door. “Tell me what's going on. Please. Whatever it is, let me help.”
His anger boiled up then, and he cursed loudly through the door at his son, something he had never done before.
“You go. Now.”
“Okay,” he finally heard through the wooden door, and, moving to the window, he saw the children leaving in a huddled group, Ivan the only one casting a confused and concerned glance over his shoulder as they left. Kiryl Balik couldn't pull himself away from watching him leave until they were out of sight, and even then, he didn't move. Again, he forced the wave of emotion back, swallowed the lump in his throat at the thought of how he'd just treated his children. But at least they were gone now, and hopefully safe.
When he could finally pull himself away from the window, he rifled through two drawers until he found a bundle of blank paper. Retrieving the ink and his pen from their place on the mantle, he sat down and quickly scrawled out two letters, stopping every few sentences to peer out the window. It was as much to check for the unwelcomed visitor as to stall in revealing what he now knew he must. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he scribbled the last of the words onto the pages. Reading over both letters, he signed his name to them, folded the pages, and tucked them into his pocket. With a final glance out the window, he stood up and stepped into the bedroom where his wife rested.
The window was covered with a quilt, leaving very little light in the room, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust so he could see. Across the room, he could hear her shallow breathing and hoped that she was asleep. Concerned, he stepped to her bedside, gently touched her forehead, and knelt beside her.
Her skin was fiery, her breathing sounding strange, not normal. She didn't stir at his touch, so he gently leaned down to kiss her cheek, then got up again, finding his way through the dark to the cedar chest in the corner. As quietly as he could, Kiryl lifted the lid and began to search each layer with his hands until he found what he was looking for. Then, pulling out the bundle, he sat down on the dirt floor.
Swift fingers loosened the knots in the large scrap of fabric, and he carefully unwound the material from around an ancient pistol. There, in the dark, he cautiously loaded the gun.
“Kiryl?” He heard the faint whisper from across the room as he slid the last bullet into the chamber.
“I am here, Nessa.”
“Some water…please.”
He quietly reassembled the gun and tucked it into his waistband, then eased himself onto the edge of the bed, picking up the cup of water beside her. Lifting her head gently from the pillow, he tipped the water to her lips. She swallowed greedily, beginning to cough after a moment. Kiryl pulled his wife close and held her until the spasm was over.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
He felt her nod against him.
“Do you need more to drink?”
This time she shook her head.
“No.”
At her weak answer, he eased her back to the mattress once more. But her hand strayed to his waist, directly to the pistol that he had tucked there just moments before.
“What are you doing with the gun?” she asked, concern flashing in her fever-glazed eyes.
“Do not worry about that now,” he said, looking away. Slowly, he stood up and replaced the cup on the bedside table.
“I will worry. I have never known you to carry a pistol. Why do you start now?”
He was silent, trying to find a way to answer her without being dishonest, as well as without upsetting her. Finding nothing he could say to put her mind at ease, he finally cleared his throat and spoke.
“Nessa, I will explain it all to you another time. I must hurry and get you to town. You are not well.”
Without waiting any longer, he hurried out of the room, pulled on the vest he'd left hanging over a ladder-backed chair in the main room, and moved the pistol around to his back, so his vest would cover it. Then he gathered the rifle he'd placed beside the door early that morning. Kiryl unbarred the door, let himself out, and took a look around the yard before he started toward the barn.
Kiryl Balik hurried across the distance separating the house from the barn, keeping a close watch on the road leading to his home. So far, he saw no sign of the trouble he was expecting, but that meant little enough… They could come from any direction, and it would make more sense they would approach from a direction less traveled, rather than the main road from town. Surely Mark Quentin wouldn't risk being seen with him, or anywhere near his home.
With a final glance around the yard, Kiryl opened the barn and stepped inside to prepare the team and wagon for the trip to town. Seeing that Ivan had left the wagon where he'd been instructed the night before, Kiryl hitched his team to the wagon, then slung the rifle over one shoulder and climbed the ladder to the loft. Placing the rifle near to hand, he began to fork some hay into the wagon's bed below. After a moment, he remembered the letters he'd written, and he retrieved them from his pocket and walked to the far corner of the loft where Ivan's and Nicolai's things were. With a glance to the barn door, he tucked the letters into Ivan's bedroll. Now, at least things would be explained.
Returning to the other side of the loft, he again started to fork the hay down into the wagon. It was as he decided that he had enough hay to make a soft bed that the man stepped into the doorway. When he saw Mark Quentin framed there, he eased the fork down and started to reach for the rifle, but stopped when Quentin's eyes settled on him.
“Good morning, Balik,” the man said, his voice jovial as he looked up at him. “I trust you slept well.”
“No. Not particularly.” His thick Russian accent sounded strained, even to his own ears.
“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. But I reckon if you didn't sleep, you had time to think on my offer then.”
“I have given it thought.”
“Good. Very good. And you've come to a decision?”
He swallowed hard. Touching his tongue to his upper lip, he drew a breath.
“I will not do what you ask of me.”
Mark Quentin stared up at him, his face revealing nothing.
“Are you sure?”
Kiryl Balik nodded, hoping that it would be that simple, that Quentin would take his answer and leave. But even as he thought it, he knew it was a stupid thought.
“I am sure. I have hidden long enough. I will not run from my past any longer.”
“I was hoping you'd be more sensible about this.”
“Get off my property.”
“You'll regret this, Balik.”
“I already regret this.”
With a shrug and a sigh, Mark Quentin nodded and walked out of the barn once more, as quiet as he appeared.
Scrambling down the ladder with the rifle in one hand, Kiryl watched Quentin retreat, saw him walk off between the house and barn as if he were leaving. With a deep breath, Kiryl Balik eased farther out of the barn, watching Mark Quentin disappear behind his house. And when he was gone, he dashed into the house again to gather his wife and carry her to the wagon.
What he found inside stopped him cold.
Sitting on the bed, cradling his wife's head was a woman, probably in her late thirties, smiling up at him as if she'd been expecting him to appear. In her hand was a pistol. She shot him a quiet smile.
“What are you doing with her?” he asked the woman, panic forming in his belly and spreading out to every inch of him.
“She's doing exactly what I told her to, Balik,” Mark Quentin's voice broke the silence.
Balik spun around then, realizing that Quentin had come in the back door. Most likely, this woman had removed the bar and allowed him in, for he knew the door had been locked tight before he went to the barn.
“Leave my wife alone. She has done nothing.”
“Oh, now that ain't exactly the truth. She married you. That makes her guilty by association, at least in my book.” He shifted his attention from Kiryl to the woman on the bed. “Livia?”
Livia eased herself out from under Nessa's head, set her mouth in a demure smile at the same time as she cocked the hammer of the pistol she held. Placing the barrel firmly against Nessa's eye, she looked first to Quentin, then to Balik.
“It's your choice, Mister Balik. Are you going to cooperate with my husband, or do I pull the trigger?”
Kiryl Balik felt his chest tighten in fear. He'd never planned for them to do this. The secret he'd been hiding for the past eight years was enough to ruin him, as well as take his family along with him. He'd not considered that they might resort to murder. He'd only been thinking they would try to use his secret to reduce his life to shreds.
“Do not hurt her. Please. I will do what you ask,” he whispered, watching them both.
Livia Quentin began to straighten up, her guard seeming to drop just a little. Taking his cue, Kiryl rushed forward, putting himself between his unconscious wife and Livia. But at his own sudden move, Mark Quentin unholstered his own gun and fired once. He felt the bullet smash through him, felt himself hit again, and then felt his own hand stray toward his pistol.
Bringing the gun to bear, he fired once before his knees sagged. Falling, he managed to twist around to see Nessa as Livia Quentin shoved the gun in her face and pulled the trigger.
Copyright, Morgan J Blake, 2001
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