Simon lunged on top of him, slammed a fist into his chin, then dragged him back to his feet. He smacked him against the wall, coat seams ripping, the dirty blond hair strung into the man’s eyes. “Now.” He fisted the coat. “Are we finished?”
“Not quite.” A blow struck Simon’s side.
Pain screamed beneath the hidden bandage, loosening his grip just long enough for the turnkey to throw Simon back.
He stumbled, clutched his side, as the man jumped on top of him. They hit the ground and rolled. Dead bugs and straw crunched beneath them, as one blow exchanged for another.
The taste of copper pennies filled Simon’s mouth. With one giant heave, he slung the turnkey off him and pushed to his feet, sweat stinging his eyes, breathing fast.
The turnkey charged with the cudgel.
Simon stooped, but it swung again too fast and wood cracked across his face with blunt force. He hit the floor. The lantern light swam, moving up and down and over, until a shadow blocked it entirely.
Before the turnkey had a chance at another clout, Simon tackled his legs. He rained down one stroke after another, until his knuckles bore blood and a string of curses flew from the man’s torn lips.
“Stop.” A gasp. “Stop!”
Vision blurred, Simon yanked him back to his feet. Something clanked to the floor. A tiny gold pendant, catching lantern light amid the filth and straw of the prison floor.
The turnkey grabbed it back and stuffed it into his pocket, blood streaming over his left eye. “All right, dandy, out o’ here.” He motioned to the door with a growl. “If you ever make it back in, I’ll kill you.”
Simon showed himself out the door, weaving his hand across the throbbing knife wound at his side. The man had either thrown a lucky punch or he knew just where Simon was weakest.
Perhaps the turnkey had already tried to kill Simon once before.
Another night.
The hearth blazed with warmth, filling the small cottage with the heavy scent of wood and smoke. From her position on the makeshift bed, Georgina leaned against the wall, resting her head on her knees.
John stood at the broken window, rifle in one hand. He had hardly released it in the three days they had been here.
Next to the hearth, Mercy was sprawled on her belly, drawing pictures in a leather sketchbook by the flickering firelight.
Georgina yawned and lifted her head. “Mercy, what are you drawing?”
For the first time, the child did not look to her brother for approval before answering. She glanced up with a grin. “Me drawing Papa and Mama and John and Baby.”
“May I see?”
John glanced over his shoulder, frowning, but Mercy scrambled next to Georgina anyway on the folded quilts.
“See.” With the book open on her lap, the dimpled fingers pointed to each crudely drawn figure. “Papa. Mama. John.” She added the eyes to her doll. “And Baby.”
“Where are you?”
“Oh.” A giggle. “Me forgot.” She hurried in a stick figure of herself, then flipped the page to a new drawing. “John draws better. He’s older.”
Although still not entirely distinguishable, the creature seemed to resemble a rearing bear and a rifle-clad hunter.
“This is Blayney. Him fights good like Papa.” She turned another page.
A woman stared out from the paper—hair long and straight, tucked behind her ears, with eyes that were doe-like in a thin face.
“This is Mama.” A whisper, but Georgina would have known anyway. “Papa did it.”
Every pencil stroke was careful. Tenderness lived in the drawing, hidden in the soft shading, with intimacy and passion that had never marked any of his paintings before.
He loved her.
