“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
She had said that prayer over and over again until suddenly it was quiet in her house.
From her hiding place beneath the staircase she had peeked out and found the man gone and her mother lying lifelessly still, her clothes torn, her arms and legs spread out strangely, her eyes staring, forever staring.
These thoughts crashing through her mind, like wildfires raging through prairie grass, gave Lauralee the courage and strength to knock Clint away from her.
When he fell, she grabbed his pistol, then scrambled to her feet.
Breathing hard, huffing and puffing, she stood over him.
“Now do you want to tell me again about raping my mother?” Lauralee said venomously, not even recognizing her own voice. With her free hand she wove her fingers through her hair. “See this hair? My mother’s hair was the same color.” She glared at him, her eyes narrowing. “See my eyes? My father’s eyes were the same color as mine. But so were my mother’s.”
She waved the pistol toward him. “See those scars you are so proud of on your chest?” she cried. “My mother’s fingernails inflicted those wounds. I look at them proudly. At least she was able to inflict some measure of pain on you before you . . . before you . . .”
She stopped. There were more urgent things on her mind besides reliving that dreadful day over and over again. She steadied her pistol with her other hand, keeping a steady aim on Clint.
“Get undressed,” she flatly ordered.
“What?”
“You heard me,” Lauralee said, her voice breaking. “Get undressed. I have something to do to repay you for what you did to my mother and countless other women and people of your past.”
“What are you going to do?” Clint whined, slipping his shirt off. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“Listen to you beg,” Lauralee said, laughing. “Did those women beg? Did you enjoy hearing them beg as I am enjoying hearing you plead with me?”
Clint cowered beneath the threat of the gun, and the sound of her voice, so cold, so ruthless.
Lauralee cocked the pistol. “Damn you, Yankee,” she hissed. “Get undressed. I’m not going to shoot you dead. I only intend to make it impossible for you ever to rape women again.”
“You don’t plan to shoot my . . .” Clint stammered, paling.
“Exactly,” Lauralee said, a slow, smug smile lifting her lips. “My father taught me long ago not to touch firearms and I never disobeyed my father.” Her eyes glimmered into Clint’s. “But I’m a big girl now. I need no one telling me what or what not to do. I have my own mind. I have my own need . . . for revenge.”
“Lord,” Clint gasped, his breeches dropping to his ankles.
Lauralee’s gaze moved slowly over him, disgusted at the sight of him. When her eyes reached that part of him that she planned to remove with a bullet, maybe two, she found his hairy hands covering his manhood.
“If I have to, I
’ll shoot right through your hands to get to that disgusting part of your anatomy that you’ve misused all of your ugly life,” Lauralee said, shrugging nonchalantly.
The sound of rushing feet approaching the cabin outside, took Lauralee off guard. Instinctively, she looked over her shoulder.
That gave Clint enough time to jump her, his wooden leg dragging clumsily behind him as he grabbed Lauralee by a wrist.
When she dropped the gun, it went off.
Lauralee wrenched her wrist free and turned to Clint. Her eyes widened as he sank to his knees, blood seeping through his fingers as he clutched at his chest.
“You . . . damn . . . bitch,” Clint managed to say in a sour whisper. “You . . . damn . . . Rebel.”
Lauralee jumped back as Clint’s body spasmed, then fell forward.
Her pulse racing, her eyes wide, Lauralee stared down at the Yankee. His body was still. She was almost certain that he wasn’t breathing.
She inched back from him, afraid to feel for a pulse in his throat. If he was still clinging to life, he could grab her wrist. He might even reach for the pistol. It lay only a few inches from one of his hands.