Galveston Between Wind and Water - By Rachel Cartwright Page 0,103

statue—turned upward, begging forgiveness from some distant and unmoved deity.

A cool Gulf breeze blew in through the smashed window frames. A storm shutter, still hanging on its last hinge, flapped against the exterior wall. Bret inched his way past the hellish scene. “Gabrielle!”

He stepped into the parlor. Wood strapping stuck out of the cracked plaster walls and every piece of fine furniture had been reduced to stacks of kindling. The torn covers and spines of mangled books were strewn in piles over the debris. Bret turned and inched his way into the front hall.

Caden stood, haggard and crazed, in the middle of the smashed remnants of his once-magnificent third floor study. Did he hear another man’s voice calling her name or had it been his own?

His open, black walking coat was torn and caked with mud. His belt was unfastened and the fly of his trousers gaped open.

Only three cracked walls remained standing, the roof gone, the bookcases and laboratory glassware destroyed, and the pages of his prized notebooks scattered by the wind and water.

Caden turned toward the corner where two walls met. His tattered canopy bed had been jammed up against the far wall near the shattered window by the final blasting fury of the storm. Rebecca and Edward . . . it was not to be, but destiny still has plans for you, dear friend.

He stared at the ether bottle and cloth on the floor. We alone have survived, dearest Gabrielle, and we alone will begin the new millennium together.

Gabrielle, her eyes still closed, lay on a tattered comforter, a ripped and dirty white satin gown draped off her bruised shoulders. She moved her head from side to side with agitated jerks as she clamped down against the belt gag across her mouth.

Her eyes fluttered and slowly opened. She looked around as though drunk. A few moments later, the whites of her eyes went wide in panic. She kicked and shook her arms, struggling to break free of the ropes binding her to the four corners of the splintered cherry wood bed.

Caden stood at the foot of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt. “It is over now, Gabrielle . . . and today, Sunday, the holiest of all days, a vengeful God may rest . . .”

He removed his belt. “But a vengeful man . . . has much to do.”

Gabrielle squirmed; her muffled screams only inflamed Caden’s passion. “Few will have survived and those who did will be weak or diseased.” He caressed himself, feeling pain melt into pleasure as his manhood hardened with every word he spoke. “I’ve waited so long . . . for the only woman who was truly worthy.”

“Gabrielle! Gabrielle, are you there?” another man’s voice roared from below, breaking his spell of desire.

Caden paused and scowled. Has fate been that careless? He slid out Bret’s ivory handled derringer and checked the chamber. We must make amends for that, old friend. He padded toward the one side of the locked door, the sudden pain in his groin flaring with each step, and waited.

At the second floor landing, Bret was almost out of breath. “Gabrielle!” He rested against the banister for a few moments and listened. He heard something scraping against the undamaged section of the top floor above his head.

Maneuvering with uneasy stealth up the shattered stairs toward the third floor landing, Bret stretched and jumped over missing steps. He leaped across a gaping hole in the floor and grabbed the third floor railing for support. “Gabrielle! Are you here?”

The stifled sounds of someone’s voice came from behind the closed door. Bret gripped the handle but it wouldn’t turn. He took a few steps back and rushed the door with his shoulder, breaking it open and hurtling headlong into the room.

Regaining his balance, he saw Gabrielle tied to a bed in the corner, straining against the ropes. Thank God she’s alive. Bret rushed to her side. Gabrielle’s long hair hung down in dirty strands against her pale, bruised face, and her eyes could no longer brook the tears welling up inside.

“It’s all right now my love. I’m here.”

Gabrielle’s eyes were frantic with movement as she strained her head toward the door.

Bret could have cried for joy at that moment but he had to make sure she was safe and free. He untied the belt gag from her mouth at the exact moment someone pressed the barrel of a small revolver against the back of his skull.

“Your blood must be stronger than your soul.” Caden