Saving Grace (The Grace Series Book 2) by Elizabeth Courtright Read Free Book Online

from his breath created a halo around his head.
    Whistler guffawed. Bellows muttered. Simpson stared after the boy. The broad-shouldered man next to him sat stiffly in his saddle and shook his head. Whoever he was, clearly he wasn’t pleased.
    “Simpson,” Jon called out, “why don’t you join us at the tavern? You never come with us.” Pointedly Jon turned to Simpson’s companions. “All of you. To celebrate our successful raid.”
    “No, thank you,” the newcomer said. His voice was deep, guttural and authoritative. Jon didn’t recognize it. “We’re leaving. Simpson, let’s go.”
    As the two groups split apart, Jon maneuvered close to Luther and asked, “Who was that?”
    “Simpson. Harry Simpson. You know him, don’t you?”
    “Yes, I know Simpson. Not him. I meant the other man. The stocky one.”
    “Oh him. I was wondering the same thing,” Luther said.
    “I thought he was a new inductee in your chapter?”
    Luther shook his head. “No, never seen him before. But I will tell you one thing. If I didn’t know better, I might mistake him for Stone. Whoever he is, he’s got a voice identical to our Imperial Wizard’s.”
    “Could it be Stone? Could he be here among us and we don’t know it?” Jon was stunned.
    “Goodness no! Stone would never do that!” Luther chortled.
    Even though they weren’t moving fast, enough time had passed for a substantial distance to develop between the two groups. Simpson, three others and the newcomer were still together. Looking left, Jon caught a glimpse of the little colored boy. He was still running. He’d almost reached the edge of the woods.
    “Bellows, don’t!” Trent’s sudden shout had Jon spinning. Bellow’s revolver was raised, and aimed directly at the small, retreating figure.
    “Don’t!” Trent hollered again.
    Bellows fired.
    Once the smoke from the blast cleared, they could see enough to know the boy’s pace hadn’t faltered. He was still moving as fast as his short legs could go.
    “Damnation! I missed the little bastard!” Bellows exclaimed.
    Whistler laughed.
    “Damn you, Bellows! Let him alone!” Trent shouted.
    Bellows ignored him. He fired again. And missed. With a curse, and a hard kick into his horse’s flanks, he started after the boy.
    “Damn you!” Trent snarled. Whipping his horse, he raced after Bellows.
    Bellows fired before Trent could catch up to him. He fired three more shots, in rapid succession, until his revolver was empty and the little boy’s body was a small, motionless lump on the ground.
    “You’re an ass!” Trent roared.
    Bellows, having spurred his horse around, moved back toward the group, yipping and hollering, “Got him! Did you see that, men? I got him! Yahoo!”
    Jon shrugged. The show was over. The boy was dead. He continued on, alongside his father-in-law, but they didn’t get far before he glanced back. No matter how pitch black the night might be, glowing Klan robes were easy to spot. There were three of them, dismounted and gathered around the little boy’s body. Jon was too far away to recognize them, but he didn’t need to. He already knew who they were. One of them was Trent Emerson, one was Harry Simpson, and the third was the broad-shouldered man with a voice like the Imperial Wizard.
     
    * * *
     
    The tavern was an old, clapboard building on the outskirts of town. The wide, splintery floorboards creaked under the treads of its patrons, and the bar itself had so many gouges one had to be careful where one placed their drink. It was dark and dismal, and it reeked of mold and spilt beer. There were plenty of other taverns in and around Mount Joy, but this particular place was Luther Emerson’s favorite haunt. Jon Kinsley had been there often with his father-in-law. He’d been there with many of his fellow Klansmen. A few drinks in and the nasty odor no longer bothered him.
    He, Luther and Whistler, now stripped of their sheets, had claimed a round table near the fireplace.