The Midwife’s Forbidden Captor (Preview)

Chapter One

Ridgewater, Texas—Late Spring, 1881

The woman’s screams rose to the rafters, louder than the ragged wind that howled across the mesquite-covered hills on a winter’s night. Outside, it was a sunny spring day, with the trees swaying gently in the breeze, a stark contrast to the dark, humid room in the Meyers’ farmhouse. 

Sweat poured down Charlotte “Lottie” Johnson’s temples, but her hands remained steady as she took the scissors from the tin pan atop the cast-iron stove. They would have liked to deliver the baby in the bedroom where the mother, Clara, could have stayed in her comfortable bed. However, after hours of labor and no sign of the baby, they’d needed to change tactics. 

“We’ll sweat that baby out,” her mother had said. 

Margaret had drawn the curtains earlier and shut all the windows to keep out the “bad air”, and the result was stifling. 

Well, we’re all sweating, but there ain’t no sign of no baby. Lottie shook her head at the thought, not wanting to let negative thoughts creep in. 

The scissors were warm and heavy in her hand. They’d been sterilized in boiling water and were ready for action. Lottie was decidedly not ready. 

“She’s losing a whole lot of blood,” Lottie murmured, casting her eyes at her mother, Margaret. 

The iron-like scent of blood hung thick in the cramped room, mingling with the smells of sweat, woodsmoke, and lye soap to create a concoction that burned the back of Lottie’s nose and throat. Outside, a bull bellowed, and sheep bleated, barely drowning out the sound of Clara’s cries. 

A kerosene lamp flickered on the table, throwing shadows against the plank walls. 

“I can see that,” Margaret said in a low tone, never moving her eyes away from Clara. “The baby must be close. Get the linen. If we don’t act now…” 

Her mother pressed her lips into a thin line as Lottie handed her the scissors. 

Lottie’s eyes flickered over to Clara. The young farmer’s wife was straining against the power of another contraction. Her face was contorted in pain and panic as she gripped the edge of the dining room table. Sweat soaked through her thin cotton nightdress, and her hair was plastered to her face. 

Lottie nodded. She was used to her mother’s brusqueness during an emergency. The two of them worked day and night in tight spaces, facing higher stakes than most men would ever encounter in their lifetimes. Together, they’d delivered dozens of babies safely. Lottie swallowed hard as she tried not to remember the few that hadn’t ended successfully. 

Instead of dwelling on all that could go wrong, she dropped her head and rushed off to find the pile of linens waiting in Clara’s bedroom. 

As she left the room, she ran into the expectant father, Ben Meyers, who was pacing the length of the living room. 

“How is she?” he asked, his voice stricken. 

“It’s too soon to tell.” Lottie avoided his gaze as she darted into the room. 

She couldn’t bear to look at him. If she did, the truth might come bubbling to her lips. 

It was starting to look like Clara Meyers might not survive the ordeal. 

“Lottie!” Margaret barked. “I need you!” 

Lottie picked up the pace, all but racing away from Mr. Meyers. 

“I need pressure here,” her mother ordered in a clipped voice. 

Lottie moved like lightning, folding a piece of linen and pressing it below Clara’s hips. She did her best not to jostle the new mother too much. The sheets beneath the young woman were soaked through with crimson blood. Her lips were pale, and her breath grew shallower with each contraction. 

“Please…” Clara whimpered. 

Lottie reached out and took hold of Clara’s hand, looking deep into her eyes. Clara didn’t ask for assurances; she didn’t waste her breath on such things. She was looking for something else…comfort. 

“It will be all right,” Lottie said gently. 

The two of them were the same age. Twenty-one years old and with their whole lives ahead of them. This was Clara’s first child. Hopefully, it would be the first of many, provided this delivery was successful. 

“Baby’s coming!” her mother cried. 

Lottie looked down. “Crown first…” 

Clara whimpered as she strained and pushed. 

“Dark hair,” Lottie said, trying to keep her tone light. “Just like their daddy. A few more seconds, and we’ll know if you’ve got yourself a boy or a girl.” 

Clara screamed, shaking her head as her body clenched. All of a sudden, she sagged back, her head hitting the table with a thunk as she went limp. 

“What’s happening?” Mr. Meyers rushed to the door. “Heavens above…” He clenched the doorframe as he stared into the gloom, his face as white as a sheet. 

“Get him out of here!” her mother shouted, grabbing hold of the baby and tugging lightly. 

It was too quiet. The baby was supposed to cry. It wasn’t making a sound. Lottie’s heart pounded as she let go of Clara’s hand and turned to Mr. Meyers. 

“What’s happening?” he asked, his eyes searching her face. 

She kept her expression impassive, careful not to let anything shine through. “You need to wait outside, Mr. Meyers. We’ll call you when it’s time.” 

“It looks like it’s time!” he protested, trying to see past her head. 

Lottie held up her hands to keep him from entering. “We’re doing everything we can for them, but we need to concentrate. Please, let us do our job.” 

He hesitated, taking a deep breath as he looked down at the floor. “Please…She’s all I have.” 

Her heart clenched as he looked up at her, staring deep into her soul as he opened his heart with that one simple sentence. She averted her gaze as her throat swelled with emotion. 

“We’ll call you when it’s time,” she said firmly. 

He turned on his heel and rushed from the room as if death were chasing him. She couldn’t offer him any false hope or comfort. How could she lie to a man staring down the barrel of such a loss? 

“Do what you can for the child,” Margaret said, handing her the tiny infant bundled in a flowery piece of linen. 

Lottie’s heart stopped. “Mama…What if…” 

“Do what you can!” her mother said, turning her back on Lottie as she went over to Clara’s side. 

Lottie looked down at the child. He wasn’t breathing. His tiny, wrinkled face was completely still. She laid him gently on the nearby counter and got to work. Time was of the essence. 

She couldn’t allow herself to panic. There’d be time for that after.

Lottie pressed two fingers to the newborn’s chest and began pressing down, trying to get the child to breathe. One, two, three. She breathed into his tiny mouth. He was so fragile, so small. 

Her heart hammered so loud in her chest that it obliterated the silence around her. All that mattered was the baby boy in front of her. One, two, three. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Breathe! 

“Come on!” she whispered. “Come on, baby boy.” 

The baby gave a choking gasp, his face scrunching up as he let out a furious wail, as if indignant about his delayed start in life. 

“Thank heavens!” she announced, holding the baby aloft as he squirmed and cried. 

“Swaddle him and get over here,” Margaret said without looking over her shoulder. “Clara’s still bleeding.” 

Lottie’s relief instantly dissipated. The baby was still covered in muck, but that would have to wait. She quickly placed him in the waiting cradle, hand-carved by his expectant father, and rushed to Clara’s side. 

She let the baby’s cries bolster her efforts. It was a healthy, strong cry. One that his mother would hear for the next few months as she cared for him. Lottie filled her mind with positive thoughts as she worked alongside her mother. 

While Margaret administered drops of ergot tincture to Clara’s tongue, Lottie applied pressure to staunch the bleeding. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Clara groaned. It was weak, but reassuring. 

“She’s coming back,” her mother said, her voice carrying a ray of hope as she looked over at Lottie. 

Her gray-streaked hair was coming loose from its tight bun, and her cotton sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, while her muslin apron was covered in blood. Lottie didn’t assume that she looked much better. They never looked presentable after a birthing. 

“Do you think she’ll make it?” Lottie asked, her voice wavering. 

Her mother had been working as a midwife for the past thirty years. She’d learned at the feet of her mother, just as Lottie was doing now. All her life, Lottie had looked to her mother for answers. There hadn’t been a time when Margaret couldn’t answer any of her questions. 

“The next few hours will tell,” she said, glancing worriedly at Clara, who stirred groggily. “Why don’t you get the child cleaned up and tell Ben the happy news?” 

Lottie nodded as she turned to pick up the child. She caught sight of herself in the gleam of the burnished metal kettle and grimaced. She’d have to clean herself up, too, otherwise Mr. Meyers might assume the worst. 

“Oh, and Lottie…” 

She looked over her shoulder at her mother. 

“Good job. As usual.” 

Lottie smiled in relief before turning to wash the child. His arms waved as he protested her ministrations, but she kept washing him until he was perfectly clean. Once he was presentable, she wrapped him in a clean piece of linen. 

She removed her blood-soaked apron and tucked her light brown hair behind her ears. A quick look in the kettle told her that she still had a lot to do, but at least she didn’t look so frightful anymore. 

“Mr. Meyers?” 

He rushed up to her the moment she stepped out into the living room. His eyes widened as he looked down at the bundle in her arms. 

“Is that—” He broke off, unable to finish his sentence. 

“Would you like to meet your son?” Lottie held the baby out to him. 

Mr. Meyers inhaled sharply and took hold of the child as if he was the most precious treasure in the world. “He’s so beautiful…” 

“Congratulations,” Lottie said genuinely. 

“And…” Mr. Meyers looked up at her. “Clara?” 

“She’s awake now,” Lottie said, “but the next few hours are critical. I promise, we’ll do everything we can for her.” 

Mr. Meyers swallowed hard and nodded, looking down at his son. 

“I should get back, Mr. Meyers, but I promise to keep you informed of everything that goes on.” 

He nodded quickly, his eyes filling with tears. 

Back in the kitchen, things weren’t looking so good. Clara was ashen, her lips tinged with blue. Her soaked garments clung to her as Margaret worked to stop the bleeding that still hadn’t slowed. Lottie tried not to look at how much blood had already been lost. 

“She’s going cold.” Lottie pulled a piece of linen from the wash basin and mopped Clara’s brow. 

“Hold steady…” Her mother said as she turned back to the black leather medical bag she always brought to a birth. She pulled out her tools and went back to work. “We need to stop the bleeding.” 

“Your baby boy’s here,” Lottie murmured in Clara’s ear. “He’s healthy and strong. He needs his mama.” 

Clara’s eyes flickered over to her, hazy and unseeing. Her skin felt like wax in Lottie’s hand. 

“She’s going to make it,” Margaret said tightly. 

They worked in silence as Clara drifted in and out of consciousness. After another hour, Margaret stepped away from Clara and placed her tools in the washbasin. 

“The bleeding’s stopped, now it’s up to her,” she said with a sigh. 

Lottie nodded, her eyes bleary as she held tightly to Clara’s hand. 

“You ought to head back home.” Margaret was busy washing her hands, scrubbing the skin as hard as she could. “Your father will be wondering how things are going.” 

“I’d like to stay.” Lottie held tightly to Clara’s hand as the new mother slipped into sleep. 

“I know, but there’s no need for both of us to be here now.” Margaret put a hand on Lottie’s shoulder. “Your job is done. Go, get some sleep.” 

Lottie hesitated as she looked up at her mother. They both hadn’t gotten any sleep the previous evening as they helped Clara with the birth. There were bags under her mother’s eyes, and her skin was sallow. 

However, she knew from previous experience that there was no use arguing. 

“Fine.” Lottie stood up and shot a glance at Clara. “I’ll come back in a few hours to relieve you.” 

Margaret nodded absently, waving Lottie away. As she was about to leave, Lottie lingered in the doorway, watching her mother. Something had changed in the past few months. Her mother had seemed to go gray overnight, and there were more lines than ever etched into her face. 

Grief had robbed her mother of a considerable amount of her youth. At forty, her mother looked at least twenty years older. There was something wrong, but Lottie didn’t know what it was, and that worried her most of all. 

She’d never been the emotional kind, but that just meant that she bottled all her feelings inside. They ate at her, but she continued on, as stoic as a statue, as she saved countless mothers and babies. 

“Did you forget something?” Margaret asked, looking over her shoulder. 

While Lottie admired her mother for her tenacity and determination, she couldn’t help but wish that her mother would stop and take care of herself sometimes, too. 

“Are you certain you’re all right?” Lottie asked carefully. 

Margaret frowned and shook her head. “I’m fine. Run along now. You’ll need to come back soon anyhow.” 

Lottie ducked her head and hurried out of the room, duly chastened. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Meyers. I’ll be back soon. My mother will stay behind to care for Clara.” 

Mr. Meyers was in the living room, holding his son to his chest as he rocked his chair back and forth. He barely looked up as Lottie slipped out the door. 

It was late afternoon when she stepped outside, and the sky was full of dark, gray clouds, rolling low over the flat Texas plains. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but there wasn’t any sign of lightning, so Lottie walked along at a steady pace. 

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she made her way down the road and into the town of Ridgewater. The town was quiet, as everyone was either at work or at home. The storefronts welcomed her as she walked past, keeping her head low. The last thing she wanted was to be stopped and pulled into a conversation. She was much too tired. 

A dog barked in the distance as a couple hurried past. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, and a woman walked out of her house and began beating her carpet with a stick, sending a cloud of dust into the air. 

The air was quiet, tranquil, perfect for a quick nap. However, Lottie didn’t head home. Instead, she made her way to the small whitewashed church at the edge of town. Its steeple rose toward the sky, chipped and worn, but still proud. She went past the door and opened the small, rickety gate that led to the graveyard. 

It was deathly quiet, with wooden grave-markers and a picket fence that stuck out of the ground like jagged teeth. To her surprise, there was someone already waiting at her destination. 

“Ellie?” Lottie asked with a frown. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” 

“We came out early today.” Ellie’s hair was pulled back into pigtails, one of the few hairstyles her father could manage. She wore a faded cotton dress, and her feet were dusty. 

If their mother had been around that morning, there was no way she would have let Ellie leave the house without shoes. At just eight years old, Ellie was endlessly opportunistic, and their father was simply too worn down to argue with her anymore. Such things didn’t matter as much to him as they did to his wife. 

“Didn’t you know it’s a Friday?” Ellie said, wrinkling her nose at her sister’s cluelessness. “And I brought Sam flowers.” She held up a fistful of crushed bluebonnets. “I picked them over yonder.” 

Lottie smiled as she put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. They stood in front of their brother’s grave, somber and quiet. It was near a twisted old oak tree, with a simple cedar marker. The inscription was short but carried a lot of weight. 

Samuel Johnson. 

1861-1880

He rode for justice. Gone too soon. 

Ellie placed the flowers lovingly on the dried grass. “Do you miss him?” 

“Every day.” 

Lottie’s voice remained steady. She didn’t cry anymore. Not since they’d buried him on that gloomy winter’s day. Sam had been her big brother, her protector, and her confidant. He’d been the only one who saw right through Alexander Elway, who happened to work alongside him as a deputy, and warned her to break it off. 

“You don’t owe anyone your heart, Lottie,” he’d said gravely. “Don’t give it to someone who’d only treat it like property.” 

She hadn’t listened then, assuming that he was just being overprotective as always. It had taken her a while to see what he’d seen, but when she did, there was no going back, and she’d broken off the engagement. She only wished she could have told Sam that she’d eventually come to the right conclusion. 

Her heart was heavy in her chest as she stared down at the grave. She couldn’t explain why she needed to see his grave in that moment, only that her heart had led her here. 

They’d buried Sam the year before. Two months later, she’d broken things off with Alexander. How much heartache could one person take in the span of a year? 

Lottie knelt to the ground, brushing her fingertips over his name. 

Just then, the wind picked up, pushing the tall, golden grass to one side. Another growl of thunder split through the air. 

“We ought to head home,” she said reluctantly, getting to her feet. 

Ellie nodded sadly as she took hold of Lottie’s hand. They walked slowly away from the grave, neither knowing what to say. 

As they walked, a prickling sensation caused the hair at the back of her neck to stand up. She looked over her shoulder to find a man standing on the church’s porch. The wood creaked beneath his boots as he shifted his weight. 

He was watching them with an unreadable expression. 

Lottie put a hand on Ellie’s shoulder and narrowed her eyes at him. She didn’t recognize the man. 

“Sorry,” he said, tipping his hat at her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“You’re not from here,” Lottie said, stopping in the middle of the path. The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. His dusty coat and worn boots indicated he’d traveled quite far, marking him not only as a stranger but also as a newcomer. 

He was tall, with a lean, wiry frame. His dark hair fell over his brow, and he kept moving it back, as if he was unused to the length. A revolver hung from a worn leather holster at his side. 

His eyes—green and sharp—studied her face, as if considering how to answer. He held his hat in one hand, resting it against his leg. While most would consider him handsome, that wasn’t what had stopped Lottie in her tracks. 

Perhaps it was that his presence was unexpected, intruding upon a vulnerable moment. She couldn’t hold it against him, not really, but he’d caught her off guard, given her a fright. Now all the negative emotions, the longing and grief, were focused into annoyance. 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Are you visiting?” Ellie asked in a high-pitched, inquisitive tone. 

“Just passing through.” He tipped his head at her. 

“Most visitors don’t linger by the graveyard,” Lottie pointed out. 

“How do you know I ain’t here for church?” His lips twisted in amusement. 

Her annoyance flared then dissipated. It wasn’t his fault she was missing her brother. He’d done nothing but stand on a porch. Don’t forget he was watching us. Lottie pressed her lips together at the thought. Her annoyance rolled back in. “Church’s closed.” 

“So it is.” He smiled faintly. 

“Then why’d you come out here?” Lottie lifted her chin. 

He tilted his head, considering her question. “Perhaps I needed a quiet moment to think.” 

Lottie blinked. She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Well. All right then.” 

Her annoyance vanished in the blink of an eye. She wasn’t quite sure what to feel. She wasn’t sure what had come over her. There was something about him that put her on edge. It wasn’t fear, not exactly…more like tension, the kind that filled the air the moment before lightning hit the earth. 

Perhaps she was overtired. 

He nodded at her before placing his hat on his head. “I’m sorry again for disturbing your peace. Y’all have a good evening.” 

The man walked down the steps, careful not to get too close to them, his spurs jangling as he moved. 

“I didn’t mean to chase you off,” Lottie said, guilt flaring up inside of her. 

He shook his head at her. “You’d have to do more than that to chase me away.” 

“Are you a deputy?” Ellie asked, looking up at him curiously. 

“No, miss. Why’d you think that?” 

Ellie pointed at his pistol. “My brother had one just like it. He was a deputy. He died.” 

The man’s eyes widened as he looked over at Lottie. She looked away, not wanting to elaborate. 

“That’s a shame, miss. I would have liked to meet him. Anyhow, you have yourself a lovely evening, you hear?” 

He smiled kindly at Ellie, and she beamed at him, waving enthusiastically. His eyes went over to Lottie again, and her breath caught in her throat. With that, he turned to leave. 

Her heart pounded in her ears. She was overcome with the urge to take something away from this encounter, this strange occurrence that she was certain would never happen again. “What’s your name?” 

He turned to her in surprise. “Jackson Hayes. My friends call me Jack.” 

“Can I call you Jack?” Ellie asked. 

Jack’s lips twisted again into that amused half-smile. “Sure, you can call me whatever you’d like. Same goes for you, ma’am.” 

The word ma’am curled in the air. He smiled as he said it, as if it was some kind of joke only the two of them understood. Her lips curled upward without her permission while her heart did a funny little leap. 

“I’m Ellie, and this is my sister, Lottie.” Ellie waved at him. “Come visit again soon, ya hear? We don’t mind sharing our church with strangers.” 

Jack placed his hat on his head and tipped it at her. “Much obliged, little miss.” 

This time, they didn’t stop him when he left. Lottie watched him go, unsettled in ways she couldn’t explain. He rounded the building and disappeared from view, leaving her inexplicably wishing for more. 

Chapter Two

Dryden, Texas—Two days earlier 

Jack Hayes leveled his pistol at the teller’s chest, his hand warming up the cool metal beneath his fingers. His hand was steady as he looked right in the man’s eyes. The old man’s gaze darted to the couple cowering on the floor, his lips twisted in a grimace. 

After years of riding with the Clayborn Gang, Jack had learned that people reacted to emergencies in a handful of ways. Either they cowered or they fought back. Once they decided there was no use in fighting back and that cowering would only irritate the outlaws, that’s when they started co-operating. It was easier when they were too afraid to do anything stupid. Unfortunately, the teller seemed like the foolish type. 

“Easy now.” He lowered his voice so the rest of the gang wouldn’t hear him. “Just open the safe. No one’s lookin’ to bleed today.” 

The old man jutted his chin out as he held his hands in the air. His face was heavily lined, and his white hair had been slicked back over his head. A spark of something akin to defiance glimmered in his eyes. 

“You’re making a mistake,” the teller said, his voice firm. 

“Keep him quiet!” Cole barked, shooting Jack an irritated look. 

Cole’s weather-beaten hat was pulled low over his face, obscuring his black hair and the top half of his forehead. If it weren’t for their disguises, their prisoners would have seen the clear resemblance between them. They could have passed for brothers, and often did, much to Jack’s chagrin. 

There was a slight height difference between them, with Jack standing at half an inch taller than Cole. And while Cole had brown eyes, Jack’s were green, gifts from their respective mothers. 

Jack said nothing but readjusted the bandanna over the lower half of his face. He didn’t spare his cousin a second glance. Cole wasn’t worth it.

Cole’s spurs jangled as he walked across the polished wooden floor, waving his shotgun around as he patrolled the length of the bank. The clock on the wall clicked, the sound jarring as it interrupted the silence. A farmer sat in the corner, surrounded by two gang members, his face turning pale beneath his tanned skin. 

“You havin’ trouble?”

Jack swallowed hard as Jesse Clayborn’s voice rang out through the room. He didn’t dare look back, as Jesse would take it as a sign of weakness. 

“Open it!” Jack said, narrowing his eyes at the clerk as he cocked his pistol. He poured the threat of pain and violence into his voice, hardening his expression as he glared at the old man. 

It was essential that the man believed that Jack was capable of terrible things. A twinge of guilt flared up in the back of his head, but Jack pushed it away. There’d be time for remorse later. If he didn’t convince the man to do what was needed, then Jesse would step in. There would be a lot more to regret if that happened. 

The old man’s hands trembled as he reached for the key on the counter. He turned and led the three of them, Jack, Jesse, and Cole, into the room at the back of the bank. 

Jack shot a glance at Jesse once he was sure the gang leader wasn’t looking at him. Jesse’s bandanna covered most of his face, but his left eye sagged slightly from the long scar that sat just beneath it. His graying black hair had been shoved under his hat, but a few strands had come loose, framing his face. 

He looked over at Jack, his gaze completely devoid of emotion. A shiver ran down Jack’s back as he quickly averted his gaze. 

It was a gloomy room with a flickering lantern hanging from the ceiling. A large safe sat at the back of the room behind a messy desk. 

Jack kept his focus narrow as he always did on a job. He concentrated on the weight of his Colt, the teller’s jerky movements, and the door of the safe. It would be a clean job. In and out. They’d be gone before the sheriff returned from his rounds. 

The key clinked against the metal vault as the teller inserted it. Just before it was about to turn and reveal a pile of money, a shout resounded through the small bank. 

“Riders! Comin’ in fast!” 

Thomas’s voice pierced Jack’s heart, and he immediately turned around. It was his little brother’s first run. Since the boy was only twelve years old, he’d been given the sacred yet relatively safe duty of lookout. 

“We need to go,” Jack decided, turning his back on the teller. 

The old man let out an audible breath of relief. 

Jesse grabbed hold of Jack’s arm and aimed his pistol at the old man’s head. “Not so fast. I ain’t leaving without that cash.” 

“Sir…” Jack lowered his voice. 

“You heard the man!” Cole shouted, stepping past Jesse and Jack as he shoved the barrel of his pistol into the old man’s chest. 

The old man choked in pain and scrambled to open the safe. 

“We need to get out of here,” Jack said quickly. “We’re not equipped for a gunfight.” 

“We got guns, don’t we?” Jesse held up his pistol. “What else do we need?” 

Fear gripped Jack as he glanced at the door. It was still wide open, but it seemed as if it was closing rapidly, taking all the air from the room with it. His heart beat was steady but hard. 

“What about Thomas?” Jack asked, his voice coming out strangled. 

“He needs to learn how to act when things go wrong.” Jesse’s voice was hard, unwavering. 

Cole snickered loudly as he stuffed cash into a burlap sack. “It’s about time the boy grew up. He’s still too wet behind the ears.” 

Jack shot Cole a glare, but Jesse held him fast. 

“You got it all?” Jesse asked. 

“Just about…” Cole grabbed handfuls of bills, his eyes alight with glee. “I just need a few more…” 

“We have to leave!” Levi, one of the gang members, shouted. He appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide with concern. His hat was askew, and his curly blonde hair was falling in front of his eyes. 

Jesse pushed Jack away from him and went to the doorway. He swore loudly as the sound of approaching hooves reached their ears. 

Cole tied the burlap sack closed with a tight knot. He pushed it at Jack before snapping up his rifle and heading toward the front door. Jack fumbled with it before tying it around his belt, the cash bouncing off the side of his leg. 

“No!” Jack ordered. “Don’t you shoot!” 

It was too late. It was deafening in the tiny room. Glass shattered and hit the ground like raindrops.