America 1883: The Western Homeland

Chapter 154 The Dutton Family is Fighting Against Death

"Tom!" Sheriff Dan greeted him with a smile, clearly in a good mood.

Tom skipped the pleasantries and got straight to the point: "Dan, I need all the real information about the hostage you're holding."

Dan's smile froze instantly. She slowly leaned back in her chair, her eyes sharpening: "Someone—has come looking for you?"

"That's right," Tom readily admitted, his eyes sharp. "If it's inconvenient for you to send them away, you might as well leave it to me."

"Can I come along?" Dan asked tentatively.

"No." Tom's answer left no room for negotiation.

"You know, if we hand people over to you—" Dan's fingers tapped unconsciously on the table, filled with doubt.

"No one will break any terms you agree on with the hostages."

Tom's voice was steady and powerful, carrying an undeniable sense of conviction, "But the prerequisite is that you yourself have to make sure she really will obey. My job is simply to make sure she gets out of here safely and completely, nothing more."

Dan stared intently into Tom's eyes, as if trying to read something from them.

After a long pause, he asked in a deep voice, "What if—I refuse to hand over the person?"

"Dan," Tom's voice lowered, carrying an almost warning calm, "don't make things difficult for me."

These words were like a bucket of cold water poured over Dan's heart.

He realized that the person who approached Tom was someone whose power he could not contend with.

"When do you need people?" Dan finally relented, his voice a little hoarse.

"at any time."

That night, an inconspicuous carriage silently drove into Paradise Valley.

A mysterious figure wearing a wide-brimmed hat and completely covered up got out of the car and quickly disappeared into the night.

As dawn broke, the young man from yesterday reappeared at the agreed-upon location.

Tom handed him a sealed letter as well.

"Tell him," Tom's voice held an unwavering resolve, "that I'm waiting for the final result."

The young man carefully put away the letter, said nothing, jumped onto the carriage, cracked his whip, and quickly disappeared into the cool morning mist.

It was as if this was just a tiny ripple in the river of time, which Tom quickly forgot about.

Time passed quickly, and it was now March 1885.

The spring chill lingered, but the weather was finally showing signs of warmth.

Tom's family's hot spring inn is thriving, with a constant stream of guests staying overnight.

Many people who experienced it were pleasantly surprised to discover the benefits of heated floors and walls, which was simply a salvation for Montana.

"Hey, Tom!" A bearded rancher sprawled comfortably on the warm heated kang bed, humming contentedly. "This kang bed is really nice! Who built it?"

Tom leaned against the doorframe, his tone calm yet confident: "The cowboys on our own ranch know this skill. If you want to get one too, sign up before spring."

Regardless of the weather, Tom would come to the hotel every day without fail.

Despite his advanced age, this bearded man was a chatterbox who was very outgoing and quickly became familiar with Tom.

Tom was a shrewd businessman. He knew that customers paid money to enjoy themselves, so greeting them with a smile and providing attentive service was the bare minimum, especially since a new deal was about to be made.

"Okay! It's a deal!" the bearded man readily agreed. "I'll get one for my ranch next spring!"

Before he could finish speaking, heavy snoring filled the warm room.

Tom silently beckoned, and the youngest cowboy waiter in the hotel immediately jogged over.

"The guest is asleep," Tom said in a low voice.

The young man nodded shrewdly, understanding Tom's meaning: Keep an eye out, don't let anyone disturb this guest's sweet dreams.

The longer a hotel operates, the more minor issues it will encounter.

Fortunately, most of these regulars are straightforward Western cowboys, not too petty, which makes things easier for them.

Tom had just stepped out of the warm wooden door of the hot spring inn when he was met by a figure rushing towards him—it was Mary!

She had barely stopped the horse when she tumbled off, her movements revealing obvious anxiety.

"Tom!" Mary's voice was urgent and distorted. "Elsa—she's going into labor!"

Tom's heart skipped a beat, but his expression remained as steady as a rock, and his voice was even more composed than usual: "Understood."

Don't panic, we've called in all the doctors we could."

After saying that, he started walking slowly and steadily toward the main house of the manor.

"You—aren't you going to ride a horse?" Mary, following behind him, stamped her feet impatiently at his leisurely stroll and couldn't help but remind him, "Riding a horse is faster!"

Tom shook his head, his tone resolute: "I have a horse."

As if it had heard its master's call, a joyful neigh rang out.

"Loach," his energetic steed, came rushing over from the side like a rolling snowball, its body covered in the white fluff left from frolicking in the snow.

Tom could tell from its appearance that the guy had found a new source of fun, upgrading "rolling in the mud" to "rolling in a snowball".

"Go away! Go play somewhere else!" Tom waved his hand irritably, shooing away the "loach" that was trying to rub against him.

Right now, he doesn't have time to deal with the "loach".

He took a deep breath of the chilly air, his steps still steady, but each step seemed to be on the edge of a taut heartstring as he walked toward the main house, which was once again shrouded in a tense atmosphere.

When Tom returned to the main house, the screams that leaked from the crack in the master bedroom door were enough to send shivers down one's spine.

That voice belonged to Elsa, who was now struggling in the abyss of blood and pain.

Father James stood outside the tightly closed bedroom door, his thick fingers clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white, digging deep into his palms and leaving crescent-shaped bloodstains.

He stared intently at the oak door that separated life and death.

Each sudden, piercing scream from inside the door caused his burly body to tense uncontrollably and tremble slightly, emitting heavy, panting breaths like a trapped beast.

The figure of her mother, Margaret, flashed quickly through the crack in the door. The edge of the basin she was carrying spilled a glaring crimson stain with her movements, splashing ominous plum blossoms across the dark wooden floor.

"Elsa, she—" Tom asked.

James turned his head sharply, his eyes bloodshot.

His lips moved, but he couldn't utter a single word. He simply shook his head heavily and dejectedly.

In the corner, the old doctor Grayson, whom they had hired from town at great expense, and his assistant awkwardly rubbed their hands together, their eyes darting around.

Grayson's white beard was glistening with sweat, and his leather bag was open, revealing a cold, gleaming forceps and several items that Tom couldn't name.

But just one look at those slender instruments sent chills down my spine.

Grayson spoke in a low voice to his assistant, snippets of words drifting over: "—Head can't come down—Too young—Pelvis—"

A day and a night passed quietly.

The fire in the fireplace was added to and then extinguished, extinguished and then added to.

The sky outside the window gradually changed from a deep, inky black to a lifeless, leaden gray, before finally letting out a faint glimmer of dawn.

Elsa's voice changed.

The continuous, heart-wrenching cries gradually faded and eventually fell silent.

A deathly silence, more suffocating than any scream, enveloped the entire main house, making it hard to breathe.