Chapter Ten

Zachary stood outside that damned farmhouse and stared up at the porch and that black front door he still couldn't force himself to open. Samantha and Timothy would be arriving from town soon. Samantha was going to start on the cleaning today since the supplies needed for anything more would take up to a week to arrive by train.

Zachary wondered if it was all a waste of time. No matter how much she polished and shone the inside of that house, Zachary had a feeling he would never be able to step foot inside it. And, if by some miracle, he could convince his boots to walk on in, he had a feeling all he would see were the people he loved bloody, broken, and lifeless.

That farmhouse would never—could never—be his home again.

Zachary hadn't been home when his family had been murdered. He'd been out being a stupid, selfish fool—but he had been able to piece together what had happened easily enough when he'd returned.

His mother and father had been at the kitchen table eating a late supper, something they sometimes did just to have quiet time for the two of them when their murderers had come barging in the front door. His father had been on his way to the stairs, probably to get his gun from his office, when he'd been shot in the back of the head at close range. The exit wound had left none of his face intact.

His mother had been next. Zachary would never forget the look of fear etched onto her lifeless face. Her clothing had been torn from her, they'd stripped her of her modesty and forced her right there upon the kitchen floor only feet away from her husband's warm corpse. She had been shot twice. Once in the chest and once in the head—either one would have been enough to kill her on its own, but apparently the killers had been attempting to be thorough.

Zachary could still remember the raw terror that overrode the shock and pain at finding his parents—the terror for his sisters. Never in his life had he run as quickly as he had run up that staircase. Praying, hoping, begging that somehow, someway, the hell that had occurred downstairs had spared those angels and they would be safe and sound in their room waiting for their older brother to come save them.

Opening that door had shown him otherwise.

The room had been soaked in blood. It had been spilled, splattered, and sprayed on nearly every surface. And his sisters? Their tiny ten-year old bodies had been lying undressed upon their beds covered in so many stab wounds, Zachary hadn't even bothered trying to count them.

He'd gathered those innocent girls in his arms and simply sobbed for a long while.

Zachary had been covered in his family's blood when he had ridden into town at midday. Folks had noticed. Fearful glances had followed him. The air had filled with the hum of whispers. Rumors had swirled. Zachary hadn't wasted any time attempting to speak to anyone or explain what had happened. He had simply fetched the Marshall and the doctor—though he knew his family was past saving.

Zachary felt his hatred for Leonard Oxley grow as he remembered that day. The Marshall had been useless. He'd thrown up at the sight of the bodies and ran from the house. And when Zachary had shown him the letter that had been left by the killer—signed by the murderer's own hand—Leonard had turned completely yellow, stated it was all out of his jurisdiction and high-tailed it back to town.

The doctor had offered to send for men to come collect the bodies—that was what his family had become...bodies—and take them to the undertaker but Zachary had refused. No one else was going to see his loved ones looking the way they had. His loving, warm mama. His proud, caring pa. His beautiful, innocent sisters... No. Zachary had sent the doctor away, gotten the shovel out of the toolshed, and buried his family himself.

Then he had left with nothing but the murderer's name, a burning, aching, gnawing hatred deep in his gut, and a gaping hole in his chest where his soul had once been. He had been a man with one purpose—vengeance—and he had failed. For five long years he had chased, and killed, and arrived at crime scenes just a little too late to help the growing number of victims the murdering bastard was leaving behind. Zachary had learned to kill or be killed. He had learned to be ever vigilant and always on guard.

But he had failed.

Rolling his aching shoulder, Zachary thought of the bullet that was still lodged within. The bullet that had caused the infection that had damn near taken his life. It had broken him. Zachary had been tired—so damn tired. Too damn tired to keep chasing. Too tired to keep seeing the horrors that devil was leaving behind him.

And now he was too damn broken to even bring that farmhouse back to life.

No matter how much Samantha painted, dusted or polished, all Zachary was ever going to see when he looked at that house was the murdered bodies of his family.

Zachary was pulled from his tormented thoughts by the sound of horses and voices in the distance. Turning away from the house, his gaze went up the road and he saw Timothy and Samantha approaching—though they were still a good ways out.

He let himself simply take in the sight of that woman sitting so comfortably atop her horse—all she had left in the world. For some reason those words were still replaying themselves in his mind.

She was beautiful, she was light, and she made Zachary want to simply be nearer her so he could bask in it. He snorted under his breath. How very poetic of him. But it was true. Samantha was soft and beautiful, fiery and proud, brave but afraid.

Damn, he wanted to know her. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to know a bit of softness and tenderness again after living so hard for so long. He became lost in thoughts of her and him and a future that could never be. Before he knew it, those horses were coming to a stop just a few feet from where he stood.

"Good morning, Zachary," Samantha greeted with a smile that rendered him speechless.

"Good morning," he managed reply gruffly. His emotions were raw today—he needed to get control of them. Unfortunately, being near Samantha made that difficult.

Stepping forward, Zachary held out his hands to help Samantha from Athena. She paused a moment before sliding down into his waiting grasp. Her body was close as he sat her on her feet—so very close. He could smell the lavender scented soap in her hair, and he didn't miss the way the pupils in those green eyes dilated while she gazed up at him. Samantha's head could have rested perfectly against Zachary's heart if he chose to pull her into him.

And he was tempted.

Instead, he released his hold and stepped away. "Did you sleep well last night?" he asked, busying his hands by searching his pocket for a rolled cigarette. He had been a bit concerned about her when he'd taken her back into town the night before. She had seemed quiet, withdrawn, and pale. But she had insisted she was fine and with Timothy riding beside them, Zachary hadn't felt comfortable pushing the issue. She looked better this morning, though her eyes held exhaustion.

Zachary knew she was lying when she replied. "I slept quite well. You?"

He wondered why she lied but knew he couldn't fault her when he himself said, "Just fine." Zachary had slept fine in five long years.

He would swear from the expression on her face that Samantha saw his lie for what it was. How was that? How could they read each other so well after knowing one another such a short time? Why was she able to break through the stone wall he normally kept around his emotions?

Timothy clapped his hands together. "Well, Samantha's got a list of things she's hoping to accomplish today. I figure while she's busy, you and I could ride out and check some of the outer fences."

"There's plenty of work to do here," Zachary countered, though that was an understatement.

"Yeah, but the weather is nice today and, judging by the way the doc was grumbling about the pain in his hip when I saw him this morning, it won't be nice tomorrow. You know how spring is, the weather is unpredictable. Might as well get those fences fixed in the sunshine instead of waiting to do it in the rain."

Zachary grunted. Damn Timothy talked too much. Zachary struck a match and lit the cigarette he had found. Taking a long draw, he glanced at the horizon. It had been a while since he'd spent some hours riding the plains. He had always found a certain peace on horseback and Blaze could use the exercise.

"Alright." His gaze found Samantha. He frowned when he realized she was looking at the house, her expression haunted. Had someone told her what had happened there? "Will you be okay here alone?"

Her brow rose a bit as she tilted her head and looked up at him. "Of course."

Zachary tossed his cigarette down and killed it beneath his boot. "There's a handpump behind the house for water. There's some food in the barn in a burlap sack by my bed if you get hungry. I'll be back well before dark so I can get you back to town safe."

"She'll be just fine, Zachary. Let's get going. The sooner we leave, the sooner you'll back with your lady love."

Samantha seemed to choke on the air itself as Zachary felt his face flame. He glared at Timothy before patting Samantha on the back several times in an attempt to offer her aid. His friend was a damned idiot.

Samantha swatted at his arm as she moved away from him. Apparently, she didn't appreciate his help. Zachary adjusted the gun belt around his hips and turned quickly, heading for the barn "Well, let's go then."

Timothy's laughter filled the air leaving Zachary to wonder just how bad he would miss the jackass if he shot him in the face.

***

After watching the men ride away, Samantha turned her attention away from them and the words lady love and her own battered ribs from Zachary's attempts to help her, and placed it onto that farmhouse and what she knew lay inside.

After placing Athena in the barn with some water and food, Samantha rolled up her shirt sleeves and headed for the house. Doing her best to avoid focusing on the blood stains, she went in the pantry and grabbed the broom and duster before setting to work.

After a couple long hours, Samantha's arms were wearing out and her clothes and skin were covered in dust and grime but she had nearly every room swept and dusted. She had righted the belongings that had been scattered everywhere, placing things back in drawers and on shelves while doing her level best not to snoop or pry into things that weren't hers.

She had been ever so careful with those knitting needles and yarn—so very gingerly she had picked up that broken pipe. These were clearly things that Zachary's family, his parents, had been using just before something horrible had happened to them. She had placed both things on the mantle beside the photograph of Zachary's family. She had yet to tend to the kitchen table and counters but bigger issues were calling her name--bloody ones. 

Everything in the home would need to be wiped down with hot soapy water but that would require a fire to heat the water. She didn't want to use the stove in the house because there was no way of knowing what that chimney looked like—it would be foolish and potentially burn the house to the ground to start a fire in that fireplace or stove before the pipes and chimneys had been cleaned.

Samantha found matches in the office and carried them outside. Gathering up some scrap wood from the projects that Zachary and Timothy had been working on, Samantha quickly and expertly started a fire. Going back into the house, she grabbed the metal bucket and went out to the handpump to fill it up.

After placing it on a rack over the fire to heat, Samantha stepped back inside. The blankets, bedding, and splatter stuffed toys upstairs would have to be dealt with—there would be no getting them cleaned. Burning was the only option.

She paused at that blood stain at the bottom of the stairs as she stood beside the kitchen table. An image of her father flashed through her mind. His face so pale, so frightened, so ashamed as Clinton Matthews had told Samantha about his betrayal. Samantha saw Clinton put that gun to her father's face. She heard the resounding echo of the gunpower igniting as that bullet released from the cylinder and flew from the barrel. She saw her fathers' blood....

Squeezing her eyes shut tight, Samantha sucked in quick gasps of air and willed those memories away. She had a job to do and she would focus on that now.

The air in the girls' bedroom felt just as heavy and thick as it had the day before. Samantha was still just as horrified by the evidence of the brutality that had happened to them but she forced herself to distance herself from those feelings and simply do what needed to be done.

The water above the fire was warm when she dragged the blankets into the yard, so she removed it and added her load of bloodied bedding. The smoke and flames grew higher as the stiff, dusty fabric caught fire quickly. She would have to burn the mattresses as well.

Returning to the room, Samantha sighed. The mattresses on these beds had been spared from bloodstains but the heavy feather tick toppers that had laid upon them had not been. It took quite a bit of grunting and sweating before Samantha got the first topper on the fire and she returned for the second, taking a moment to swipe some sweat from her brow.

She was getting there. She still needed to get the second topper as well as all the blood spattered toys taken care of and then she would be ready to begin washing the smears and splatters from the walls and floors throughout the house—though some of the bigger blood stains would have to be sanded or perhaps even have floorboards replaced.

Hefting up the second mattress topper, her arms shaking as her muscles ached their protest, Samantha was just heading for the stairs when she heard the yells from outside.

***

After nailing up another board, Zachary stood straight to stretch out his back and swiped his black shirt sleeve across his sweat slicked brow. The sun had already reached its peak and was beginning to descend downward—he figured it was around two in the afternoon. He would head back to the farmhouse soon, pick up Samantha and take her back into town.

He was sure she would be tired. Maybe he'd take her to get dinner as a thank you for all the work she was doing? He found his gaze drifting in the direction of the farmhouse and he frowned. Was that....?

Without a word, he leapt on Blazes' back and rushed to the top of a small hill nearby to get a better view. The farmhouse was too far away to see but that was smoke, big black plumes of it, in the distance and it was coming from the direction of the farmhouse—from the direction of Samantha.

Panic sprang to life inside him. Samantha was in trouble and Zachary wasn't there to keep her safe. He was going to fail her—just like he failed everyone.

Letting out a yell, Zachary urged Blaze into his fastest pace and raced toward the smoke. He faintly heard Timothy yell from the fencerow where he'd left him, but Zachary didn't take time to listen. He had one focus and that was saving Samantha.

Racing over the plains, Zachary pushed Blaze hard. Every minute that passed, his fear and desperation increased. He didn't want to fail again. He couldn't be too late—he wouldn't be too late.

Even as he neared the farmhouse and realized that it was standing safely and the smoke was coming from a fire that had been set outside to burn something—his fear did not decrease. Until he saw Samantha, until he could look in those green eyes and know that there would be life in them looking back at him, he wouldn't be comforted.

Pulling a panting Blaze to a stop, Zachary leapt from his back and ran for the house. "Samantha! God dammit, where are you!"

Zachary's feet skidded to a stop at the base of those porch steps. He wanted to go in. He needed to go in. Samantha might be in trouble. Try as he might, he could not make his legs take him any closer to that damned black front door.

"Samantha?!" his voice roared in the deafening quiet. He was faintly aware of the sound of hoofbeats thundering closer as Timothy caught up to him. All his attention was on that door.

"Zachary?" That voice was like a balm to his battered soul as that door suddenly flew open and Samantha came rushing out.

That got his feet moving.

He rushed forward, grabbed hold of her, and pulled her into him, hugging her as closely as he could while burying his face in those wild red curls that now smelled of dust and smoke covered lavender. "I was damn scared, lady," he growled into their softness.

He felt her body stiffen momentarily before melting into his. Her arms went around him and clutched at the back of his vest. She was so small, so soft, so vulnerable. He wanted to hold her this way and protect her always—and her head rested directly on his heart, just as he had suspected it would.

Slowly, loathfully, Zachary raised his head. His gaze went momentarily through that open door to a kitchen he hadn't looked inside in five long years.

Swallowing hard, Zachary realized the kitchen table was still home to the same plates of food that had been there that early morning five years ago—and there, right at the foot of the stairs, he saw the dark stain. The place where his father's life had drained out of him.

Pulling away from Samantha, Zachary felt a desperate rage and disbelief fill him. He grabbed her by the upper arms and looked down into her eyes which were now wide with uncertainty. "What are you burning?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she glanced behind him toward the fire and licked at her full bottom lip. "I.. Just...There were things I couldn't clean..."

Please... Zachary begged the universe to stop being such an evil son of a bitch for two goddamn minutes. He had paid good money to see that house cleaned and all evidence of that day wiped away from it five years before. But through that door he saw the proof.

Giving Samantha a little shake, Zachary felt that desperation grow. "What are you burning!" he demanded, more loudly this time.

Timothy's voice came from behind him. "Come on, Zach, let go of the woman...."

Zachary quickly did and took several giant steps back, leaving the porch. Turning quickly, he went to the fire and while the flames had turned much of what was burning to ash, he saw the edge of a blanket. A blanket that had once been white with flowers printed on it. A blanket that had once been on his younger sisters' bed—and covered in her blood.

His fists clenched tightly. Damn that damn house. Samantha never should have seen that! Zachary knew how horrific the scene must have been. He knew exactly how much blood and gore she must have been forced to look at. And instead of complaining, the damn woman had been trying to wash—and burn—it away.

Enough was enough. That wasn't a home, it was a haunted house full of memories that Zachary would never escape if he had to keep looking at it day in and day out.

It was time to burn it down. 

A/N: Baptism by fire anyone? Thoughts, feelings, give 'em to me, y'all! Hope you're enjoying the story even if it is an emotional one! Thanks for reading!