He barely had time to slam the door closed and dive out of the way before musket balls spattered into the wooden frame, shattering the large windows that bordered the door. Crawling over he reached up to turn the lock, smiling at his foolishness. It would hardly stop them, but why make it easier? Keeping low he retreated down the hallway the way he had come. On borrowed time, he meant to face Prescott before the stockmen and guards came busting into the house.

Prescott was coming from the room, his right shoulder crudely bandaged when Rueben rounded the corner. For an instant, the two froze then Prescott took a deep breath to shout for help. Without warning, Rueben whipped a hard left jab into Quinton's throat. Prescott's shout died as he croaked hoarsely, stepping back to choke and gag as he suddenly fought for breath.

"No additions to our party yet, Prescott, your dance card is full at present."

Roughly grabbing him by the collar with his left hand, Rueben's right tightened cruelly into the fresh blade wounds on the man's shoulder. It must have hurt but Prescott said nothing, letting himself be half dragged back into his room where Rueben let him loose, bracing a chair against the door.

"How dare you show your face here, Lane," it came out hoarse, Prescott's gaze calculating.

"You have a lot to answer for," keeping a wary eye on him, Rueben stayed out of line with the windows. "You've hurt a lot of people."

"Me?" The cough was ragged, but Quinton smiled. "No, I don't hurt people, you do. It's all you're good for."

"Not anymore. This, whatever it is you're planning, ends now. I'm out of it. So is she. Understand?"

Quinton paused, staring at Rueben Lane silently, his expression calculating. So, Noah had been telling the truth after all. Something was wrong with the man.

"Out of it? Do you think you can agree to a deal with me, then double-cross me the first chance you get without repercussions? You steal her from me, then have the nerve to attack me in my own home?"

Rueben just smiled pleasantly, more to irritate than anything. He knew it wouldn't be long before the men outside came in to ensure everything was alright.

"I'm telling you how it is. You can agree to it, make some restitution, or I'll show you exactly what kind of animal I can be."

"Who are you to talk about atonement? After all that you've done, every bone you've broken, every drop of blood you've spilled. No, Lane, you have no right to talk about making amends."

"I might have been the hammer, but you were the force behind it. Perhaps I am a savage, but the man pulling the strings is just as guilty." Crossing his arms, Rueben glared at him. "How's it going to be, Prescott? Easy, or hard?"

"This is my land, my station," shifting, Quinton snarled the words. "You don't get to threaten me here."

"No?" Smile vanishing, Rueben struck like a snake. His fist landed with a satisfying splat against Prescott's mouth. "It's the hard way, then."

Despite his wounded arm, Prescott lunged at him with a roar, and the two collided like wild oxen. Sliding back a step, he whipped a wicked right to Rueben's mouth. Flesh split, blood spilling across his chin. A straight left followed by another right sent Rueben stumbling back, his head ringing, sparks dancing behind his eyes.

Prescott had done his share of boxing, he could tell that much instantly, and he had lost none of his power. He tried to back up; to dodge away but Quinton Prescott was there, hammering blows catching the side of his head and face. Rueben knew he could fight, knew that once he'd been very good at it, but now his mind could not retrieve anything helpful, and he was being beaten.

His reaction time was slow as Prescott kept battering him. Vision swimming, he caught a stiff jab on the chin, dropping to one knee. Automatically his arms lifted to protect his head and face, panting raggedly. What was wrong with him? If he lost this fight, prison would be his next stop. Or the grave.

Bunching his shoulders Rueben took the brunt of Prescott's blows from behind the strong shield of his forearms. Gathering his strength, he lunged upright, shoving Prescott nearly off his feet. Taking advantage of Quinton's momentary disorientation, he stomped hard on Prescott's foot. The man yelled loudly and hopped back like he'd been bitten.

Rueben followed up with a wicked jab of his left fist, cracking hard against Prescott's jaw. He gave Quinton no time to recover but stepped in with a curved right. It broke his nose, chased instantly by a weighted left that snapped Prescott's head to the side, a tooth flying loose from his bloodied mouth. Setting his hips Rueben tore him with a torrent of short jabs to the chest and stomach. A wild rage was blazing within him, almost hatred for someone essentially a stranger.

Familiar. This rage was so familiar that it cut through the fog he'd been in for months. Warm, sticky, metallic blood clung to his hands. Spattering across his arms, shirt, and neck. Welcoming. Redeeming.

Images began to flood into his mind, jagged pieces falling into place. Every memory. Every emotion. Every face of everyone he'd ever hurt. Raw emotion drove his fists, beating Quinton Prescott until his features were unrecognizable. Until no resemblance remained between them.

Something hooked his arm, slowing the blow that would have ended Quinton Prescott's term of power. Angry, surprised, Rueben turned to look. A large black object smashed into his face. Blinding white pain flashed through him an instant before everything went black.

He woke with dizzying pain behind his eyes, pulsing along his temples and cheekbones. He could hardly see through the bloodied, swollen mess his face had become.

"He's awake, boss." It came from one side, and heavy footsteps approached. Boots on wood.

"You'ew wegwet betwaying me, Wueben Wane. I pwomise you tat." Prescott's voice was nasal, his words slurred through broken lips and missing teeth. "Befoe I send you back in pieces to wot in pwison, I wiew give you exac'y one chance to save yow skin. Whe is she."

Managing to turn his head, Rueben kept his expression fixed.

"Say that again? I couldn't understand you."

Cursing, Quinton punched him hard enough to knock Rueben and the chair he was tied to over. Hitting the ground, he flinched, gritting his jaw as the beating continued with boots. Hard leather dug into his ribs and back. Waves of nausea washed through him but his stomach was empty.

"Easy, boss," the warning was soft. "His head is still screwed on loose from last time."

A last kick stabbed hot pain through Lane's side. His gasp was ignored as the chair was pulled upright. Quinton dug a hand fiercely into his hair, yanking his head back.

"You wiew tew me whe she is. Whe my chid is."

"It's not yours." Lips curling into a smile, Rueben felt a euphoric triumph despite his circumstances. "It's mine."

"Why you-!"

"What's it like, Prescott?" Coldly risking it all, Rueben taunted him. "Hiring another man to bed your woman so she'll get pregnant... no man I know would stoop so low, but then again... if you can't get your woman pregnant, are you even a man?"

The blow sent him careening sideways, crashing to the floor, his elbow cracking against the hardwood. Prescott lunged after him, landing two savage punches before being pulled off.

"Easy, boss! If you kill 'em, you won't get the girl's whereabouts,"

Lips quivering in restrained fury, Prescott glared at Lane but nodded.

"Take him outside, and stwing him up. Tew Wivews to get ta whip."

"Sure boss," footsteps retreated as Prescott knelt, staring into Rueben's eyes.

"Yua going to beg me to kiw you befoe I'm done." Leaning closer, his bloody features filled Rueben's vision. "But I won't. Not untiew you tew me whe to find ha."

"You'll have to kill me." Even as Rueben said the words, icy sadness formed in his stomach. This was the second time he would lose his wife and child.