Amy Harris
June 12, 1875 – Denver, Colorado
Amy Harris stood in the hallway outside the bedroom door, an empty ceramic water pitcher clutched to her chest. When her knees threatened to buckle, she locked them tight and leaned her back against the wall.
Calm yourself.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she urged her heart to regain a slow even pace. She pushed a ragged breath through clenched teeth and pressed lips. Her inhale hitched as she struggled to fill her lungs.
You will not cry. The worst is over.
Her body trembled, and her heart rate accelerated, despite her attempt to quiet her mind. The terror that had overwhelmed her in the dark confines of the locked wardrobe clawed at her throat.
With a gasp, she opened her eyes and searched the empty hallway. Daylight shone through the broken bedroom wall and illuminated the corridor with an unfamiliar glow.
Everything has changed.
From the bedroom behind her, Nichole coughed the last blood from her lungs, while Merril repeatedly assured Nichole, and himself, she would be all right. The opening in the exterior wall channeled the worried shouts of neighbors, who had been drawn to the sound of a single gunshot, followed by the crash of the porch collapse.
Jim must be hurt. I need to move.
The tall Highlands foreman, Jimmy Leigh, had gone through the window, taking the madman Blackie Jones with him. But Jim's heroic attempt to save Nichole had come too late. The thought of Nichole's battered and bloody body filled Amy's mind along with memory of Merril's anguished cry. Amy would have fallen to her knees in defeat as Jason pulled her from the wardrobe, were it not for the Entity.
The Entity's composed presence had calmed her mind, and given Amy the strength to push her husband away. She’d directed Jason to go outside and aid Jim as she turned to Nichole's broken body. The moment she had placed her hands on Nichole's lifeless chest and pushed her earth-vision into Nichole, Amy felt the Entity move across her consciousness and interlace with her own limited magic. No longer a simple spectator, the Entity not only saw through Amy's eyes, it healed through her hands.
Amy relaxed her grip on the urn enough to brush the auburn hair from her face. She paused and held the trembling hand before her eyes. With a thought, she pushed her vision past her skin to see bone and tendons—the absolute extent of her ability. She had neither the fire-skill to knit bone, nor the air-skill to fill Nichole’s collapsed lung. She had only Earth and Water.
The Entity had observed the damage inside Nichole through Amy's vision, then extended its reach and used the delicate touch of fire to knit her splintered rib and mend her lung. In the end, it had been the Entity who pushed air into Nichole's chest and sparked the beat of her heart.
Whoever ... or whatever, had invaded Amy's mind, had healed Nichole and then departed with a whispered promise. “I will find you.”
Another tremor moved down her spine, and she gripped the empty urn with both hands.
Find your center—calm yourself. Jim needs you. Nichole needs you. Your husband—
Amy's thoughts ground to a halt. This entire unspeakable episode could be laid at his feet. Her anger at Jason steadied her.
Two more quick breaths, a prayer to the Goddess for strength, and she pushed herself away from the wall. Her emotional stability returned as she navigated the steep staircase with the urn cradled in her arm. At the base of the kitchen stairs, she paused when Jason helped Jim through the broken back door.
“Is Nichole all right?” Jim grimaced as he limped forward, his bloody side toward Amy, with his opposite arm thrown across Jason's shoulders for support. He faltered and took another quick step into the kitchen.
“She’ll recover—with rest.” Amy’s gaze cataloged the big man’s injuries with growing concern. A scraped chin and bloody elbow were minor. And although he favored his right leg, it was the blood on his left side and down his leg that concerned her the most. “She's in better shape than you. Jason, sit him at the table. Jim, you'll need to remove your shirt.”
Albert Fielding, their closest neighbor, stood in the broken doorway. His clothes were covered with blood from assisting Jim into the house.
“Hello, Mr. Fielding. Thank you for your help.” Her calm voice held no trace of her pent-up fury. She handed him the ceramic urn, retrieved the bucket from under the kitchen counter, and held it up for him to take. “Would you be so kind as to bring me water from the pump at the well? It flows much faster than the pump in the kitchen.”
Mr. Fielding took the bucket in his other hand and disappeared out the back door with a nod.
She turned her gaze from the retreating neighbor, flicked a brief glance at her husband, and focused on Jim’s muscular frame. “What happened to Jones?”
Jim held his bloody shirt above his head as he twisted to view the gunshot wound along his side. Although the flow of blood had slowed, his denim trousers were soaked red from his belt to his boot. “He's dead. The fall broke his neck.”
“I can't say I'm sorry about that.” Amy's hand touched the skin above the wound as her earth-sight penetrated. The injury had already begun to mend. “This will require stitches.” A quick appraisal of his other injuries told her his knee had been wrenched but would also heal at a remarkable pace. She raised her gaze from the wound to Jim's eyes.
His dark stare held hers for a moment before he turned his head and nodded. “Do what you have to.”
Jason’s blue eyes, so similar to Nichole’s, turned from the deep slice along Jim's ribs to Amy. “Shouldn’t we take him to the hospital?” Blond curls clung to the perspiration on his forehead, his face still red from the race to the house.
Anger hardened Amy’s heart. “No. That won’t be necessary.” She stood and stepped to a tall linen closet tucked beneath the stairs. “I can manage a few stitches.” She brought Jim a folded linen cloth. “Hold this to the wound until I return.” The back door squeaked on its broken hinge. “Thank you, Mr. Fielding.” She took the urn from the neighbor's hand and pointed toward the floor. “Please, set the bucket next to Jim's chair.” She held the urn to her chest, withdrew additional linen towels from the closet, and then turned to mount the stairs. “I'll be right back.”
“Here, let me help,” Jason offered, a footstep behind her
Amy stopped and faced her husband. “No. Thank you. I can manage.” She tipped her head toward the back door. “You should wait out front for the coroner and police chief. I imagine they'll be along shortly.”
“But Nichole—”
“Is in good hands.” Amy turned from Jason's injured gaze and looked up the steps. “Besides, I doubt Nichole would care to see you just now.” Her clipped tone brooked no argument. Thankful the urn was only half-full, she pressed the linens under her arm, grasped her skirt with her hand, and ascended the steps.
Merril and Nichole’s soft voices caught her ear as she passed the first room. She paused and looked in on the couple.
Merril sat at the head of the bed, his back rested against the headboard. He held Nichole in his lap, the bedcover wrapped around her to keep her warm. His long dark hair, loose and dusty from the race to her side, curtained both their heads as he whispered to her.
They both looked up as she entered the room.
“I have water and towels for you. I'll put these in the room down the hall. This room needs to be—repaired.” Her gaze flicked toward the hole in the wall, then settled on Nichole.
Nichole’s mouth moved without sound, and her crystal blue eyes filled with tears. She reached out her hand and whispered, “Amy.”
Amy set the urn and towels on the dresser and took Nichole's hand. “My dear, what's the matter?” Amy sank to her knees beside Nichole and wrapped her arms around her. “Shh, now. You’re safe.”
Nichole’s blonde curls nodded against Amy’s shoulder. “I know,” she rasped, her voice thick with emotion. “I just missed you so much.”
“You missed me?” Amy exchanged a confused glance with Merril.
Nichole pulled back and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I have to explain so many things.”
Amy smiled and placed a hand on each side of Nichole's face. “We'll have time to talk soon, my dear. For now, you need to move to a different room and clean up.” Amy stood and stepped back. “Blackie Jones is dead.” She waved her hand toward the missing wall. “Jones and Jim went out the window and took the wall out as well. The porch broke their fall.”
“What?” Nichole cleared her throat and looked from the hole in the wall back to Amy. “Is Jim all right?”
“He took a jolt from the fall. He's injured, but nothing is broken,” Amy assured Nichole. The worst harm is from the bullet wound.”
“Jim’s been shot?” Merril asked, shock and concern evident in his tone.
“Yes. Luckily, the wound is only a deep graze, no penetration. It could have been much worse.” Amy retrieved the water and towels. “I'm going to put this down the hall. Merril, if you could help Nichole change rooms, and then fetch her travel case, I would be most appreciative.”