Autumn Sage

by Genevieve Turner

  Isabel arranged the schoolbook in her lap. Might as well use the light for as long as she could and plan lessons for next school term. Opening to the chapter on the geography of Brazil, she looked down at the page and began reading.

  Brazil. A republic, formerly a Portuguese colony, capital was Rio de Janeiro… Her thoughts trailed into nothingness. How many minutes passed, she could not say. It felt like several, though she still hadn’t turned the page, her mind everywhere except on the geography of Brazil.

  Franny sighed deeply, setting her chin in her hands and looking as though she’d like to be anywhere else.

  “Would you like a book?” Isabel asked her, although she knew what the answer would be.

  Franny simply shook her head and buried her chin deeper in her palms.

  Isabel returned to her reading, trying not to smile at Franny’s exaggerated slump of boredom.

  A crackling came from deep within the brush. The plants were inky sketches on the dark gray of their surroundings, all detail lost in the twilight. Every part of her went taut as she waited and waited for something to appear.

  It didn’t.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked Franny.

  “Hear what?”

  She listened for a moment more. Only silence reflected back from the brush.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  She took a quick glance behind her. Felipe was watching them, and when he dropped his gaze, Juan looked their way.

  Nothing to fear—the men would make certain they were safe, watching as closely as they were. She forced her gaze back to her book. No more ridiculousness. There was nothing out there.

  Brazil. The Amazon river, the jungle, flesh-eating fish… Her thoughts trailed away again, the words becoming a jangle of letters before her eyes.

  A rustling came from her right and her heart skittered. She rose, peering this way and that, telling herself there was no need to investigate further. There was nothing in the brush. At least nothing that shouldn’t be there.

  “What are you looking for?” Franny had risen as well, and was frowning at her.

  “I heard something. I definitely heard something.” An ache began to ring within her skull like a bell. A headache coming on, no doubt because she was working herself into a state.

  “Maybe a rabbit?” Franny offered. Her loose stance made it clear she thought Isabel was making too much of the whole affair.

  And she was. These were the mountains; there were any number of creatures mucking about in the gathering darkness.

  “I’ll go see what it is.” Franny began to march off into the brush.

  “Francisca, no!” She was too late in grabbing for her sister’s skirt. “Come here! You can’t leave either.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Franny tossed back. “I won’t go more than a foot or two into the brush.”

  “Francisca!” Panic splintered the last syllable.

  Franny stopped, turned. “I’m going to prove to you that it’s nothing. You were always so fearless.” She drew her hands into fists. “I want you to be fearless again,” she pleaded.

  Oh, Franny. The panic ebbed, but the need to weep remained. “You’re the fearless one,” she said softly.

  Franny held out her hand. “It’s only a rabbit.”

  Isabel set her hand in her sister’s and allowed herself to be led to the edge of the clearing, where the firelight thinned into darkness. Because she found herself agreeing with Franny—she wanted to be fearless again too. So she kept putting one foot in front of the other, let the pressure of Franny’s hand compel her forward—as a rising urge to flee, to hide, to do anything but advance toward that noise built in her veins.

  As they reached the edge of the clearing, the buckwheat reaching out to scratch at her skirts, a rabbit burst out, white tail flashing, wildly zig-zagging as it raced for shelter.

  Manic laughter burst from her lips, the chortles bubbling out against her will, choking her as they tried to become sobs.

  Franny had been right—it had only been a rabbit. While she wasn’t quite feeling fearless, triumphant might fit. And a little mad, the laughs changing into heaving breaths that she couldn’t even begin to control.

  “See?” Franny’s smile was wide, the spark in her eyes one of victory. “Let’s get back to the fire.”

  Her sister marched away, clearly intending for Isabel to follow. Which she’d do with some haste—Isabel had no intention of remaining in the shadows, no matter that it had only been a rabbit.

  She raised her heel, her knee bending as she shifted her weight forward, preparing to take that first step—

  A hand snaked out from the brush to wrap round her ankle and stop her dead.

  Goddamn this brush.

  Sebastian dragged himself past yet another redshank bush higher than his head, wishing this hunt could have been easier. He had no clear line of sight anywhere, the brush was more difficult to move through than downtown at quitting time, and his witness would not cease unsettling him.

  Not that it was her fault. He was the one at fault, the one who had to rein in the unruly sensations she evoked in him. God, if only she weren’t so resolute, so unflinching… He’d find it harder to admire a woman who was softer.

  She’d spent all day in a state of high agitation—he’d seen the evidence in the set of her shoulders, the stiffness of her back, the way she’d rubbed her temple—and still she’d snapped at him when he’d asked if she’d be all right in camp. For half a moment, he’d wanted to remain right where he was and let her sharpen her tongue on him all she liked.

  Then he’d remembered himself and shoved that malignancy deep within, to be swallowed by the darkness there. And reminded himself to the do the same whenever she provoked a similar response.

  Soon enough he would be back in Los Angeles, among his familiar things, in his trusted routine, and all this emotional nonsense would fall out.

  He stopped short before he ran into a stand of cacti almost as prickly as a certain lady he knew. He pushed aside another buckwheat bush, the spines tearing at his coat.

  After this trip, he would have to burn this suit. It was a shame; he rather liked it.

  He briefly considered taking his frustrations out on McCade when he found him. A fist to the jaw, a boot to his rib cage—Sebastian would think of Señorita Moreno the entire time, her fierce expression as she’d detailed what McCade had done to her—and every blow would be pure deliciousness.

  He stopped dead.

  No. No, he mustn’t think such things.

  He wasn’t that kind of man any longer. He wrapped a hand around the spiny buckwheat, pressing until he felt the flesh give against the spines. Not enough to wound, just enough to call back his reserve.

  After several cool breaths, he felt recovered enough to release the spines. He went forward, but only traveled a few feet before his boots caught in something, squelching wetly when he tried to pull them free.

  He’d walked into a marsh—he must be close to the ciénaga.

  Now these boots were ruined too.

  No time to mourn them. He crouched low, his every sense taut with anticipation. No more fruitless introspection—it was time to do what he did best.

  He crept along the edge of the marsh. If McCade wanted to be as far from the road as possible, he’d be on the southern end of the ciénaga. That was where Sebastian would begin, and then work his way back toward camp.

  The colors of the day had dissolved into gray in the fading light, making his search that much harder. Only something light in color would stand out, although the breeze might catch some bit of fabric the fugitive had left behind and draw his eye with the motion of it.

  As he came into a small clearing on the far southern side—with a no doubt fine view of the road from the treetops—he spied a long white square of fabric flapping in the wind. Likely a sheet stolen from some housewife’s line, it was draped across a tree branch to form a rather pathetic shelter.

  He pulled his pistol free,
the heft of it as familiar to his hand as a pen was to a scholar’s.

  “US marshal,” he called. “Come out unarmed and with your hands in the air.”

  No answer except the snap of the sheet in the wind.

  He tried again. “McCade, I know you’re in there.”

  Still nothing. Either the fugitive was waiting for him in that tent, or else was somewhere in the brush, ready to put a bullet in him.

  Or he wasn’t there.

  The hair on his nape rose as he consciously slowed his breathing. Time to take a risk and see if it paid off.

  If it didn’t, he’d end up with a bullet for his trouble.

  He tore down the sheet in one quick rip to find…

  Nothing.

  Oh, there was a bedroll, and the remains of some food. But no fugitive. Judging by the unspoiled state of the food, he had been here recently. Which meant he could return soon.

  But if he had food, why leave?

  McCade could have seen their arrival. He might even now be at the edge of camp, watching, waiting. Wanting to seize Señorita Moreno once more.

  Sebastian shook off his chills. He could not be distracted by her, not now. She was perfectly secure, in a camp with a dozen other men for protection, one of them her own brother.

  But he remained uneasy. He’d promised to keep her safe.

  The best way to do that is capture McCade. Not by playing lovesick swain in camp.

  Sebastian looked up at the tree overhead, judging how high he could climb without falling and breaking his neck. Fairly far up, if the thickness of the branches was true to their strength. He could place the sheet back, then climb into the tree to await the outlaw’s return.

  Of course, if McCade saw him first, the outlaw could shoot him right out of the tree. The ground was quite a ways from the first branch—it would hurt when that dirt caught him, to make no mention of whatever hole McCade might punch into him.

  He had to decide. He couldn’t stand here all night thinking; that was a certain way to get shot.

  He looked north, to the camp so far away, then back to the tree.

  The tree it was. It would be an uncomfortable night, but if the saints were smiling, McCade would return to his hovel before too long.

  He jumped to grab a low branch, the bark tearing at the skin of his palms. He braced his feet against the trunk and began to lift himself up.

  Shouts.

  He distinctly heard them, faint as they were, drifting from the camp. Much too high pitched to be a man’s—they must have come from either Señorita Moreno or her sister.

  He paused, his ears straining to hear more.

  There they were again. Louder this time, and definitely female.

  McCade was there. He’d seen them, he’d been watching camp—those shouts were Señorita Moreno’s, perhaps crying for help.

  God, he shouldn’t have left, should have stayed hard by her side, duty or no. He dropped from the tree, running as soon as his feet touched the ground, gooseflesh rising to slide against the fabric of his clothes.

  More shouts now, distinctly male. McCade or the cowboys? He couldn’t tell.

  He ran as fast as he could, praying his promise to keep her safe hadn’t been made in vain.

  Chapter Seven

  The hand round Isabel’s ankle tightened painfully, a thumb digging into the tendon. She attempted to jerk it free, some instinct still operating in her poor fear-fogged brain.

  “Don’t.”

  She’d never forget that voice. It haunted her nightmares, echoed in her skull when she was in the grip of a headache—sometimes she even imagined it in the whisper of the wind through the pines.

  McCade had found her.

  She could still bolt free—he only had her ankle, all she had to do was pull hard enough, scream, and she’d—

  A pistol cocked behind her. “I’m aiming for her,” he said, low and easy.

  Franny. Dear Lord, he wanted to hurt Franny. She was walking to the campfire, so sure that her fearless sister was following close behind.

  Isabel set her trapped heel to the ground, signaling her surrender.

  “Good. You know enough to keep quiet. Take two steps backward.” A relaxed command. He already knew she would obey.

  She did, her knees trembling with each step. The sounds of the night were sharp in her ears, the air too hard against her skin, all of her at a heightened pitch as she stepped back into darkness.

  As she completed the second step, she was jerked backward and down, a weight coming over her—a familiar weight. Panic bloomed, a choking, endless void, leaving her only a pinprick in the midst of it. Her limbs were no longer hers, were simply dead weight in the limbo she was trapped in—

  “Isabel?”

  Franny’s voice pierced her panic, brought her back from madness. Her sister had noticed she was gone.

  Please, Franny, don’t come here, go get Juan, or Felipe, or anyone. Don’t come here.

  “You better not answer her.” His voice might have been casual, but his expression wasn’t. Hard, grim—loathing was written in the set of his features.

  She’d wondered how she would react when she came face to face with this man once more, when she confronted this creature who’d shattered nearly everything of hers. The paralytic fear had been her greatest worry, that she would be rendered insensate, useless at the sight of him—and he would have her again.

  He did have her again—but the fear wasn’t foremost. She was angry. Livid. Furious.

  “I don’t have to,” she said. “She’s going to get the men right now. Can you kill me in time?”

  He wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed. “Probably. But I’d rather drag you someplace private to do it. Dispose of your corpse where it won’t be found—and then I’m free. No witnesses without you.”

  A savage pleasure rose within her fury—he’d miscalculated, the fool. “I’m not the only witness,” she hissed.

  His fingers tightened, dark spots dancing before her eyes—whether due to the pressure at her throat, or the panic rising once more, she couldn’t say. It was too close to her nightmares to be gripped like this, pinned like an animal for the slaughter, for her to hold off the panic much longer.

  “I shot that sheriff in the gut. He’s dead.” McCade drew out the word dead like the name of a lover.

  “But he’s not,” she gasped. “He lived.”

  The moonlight spilled across McCade’s teeth as he bared them, looking as vicious as she knew him to be.

  “Goddamn it.” He stared at her, contemplating her the way a cat did a wounded bit of prey. “But that won’t save you.”

  In the half second before his hands tightened around her throat, she heard them—the men coming closer, their voices floating over them as they searched for her.

  That half second was her moment to act.

  “Juan!” She feared her throat might split like an overcooked sausage, so hard did she yell. “He’s here! Juan, he’s here!”

  The hand clamped hard on her neck, harder than it ever had before, tissue giving way with a crackling sensation that traveled to the very end of her spine. True blackness came closing in, not the false blackness of her panics. This was the darkness of the void from which no one escaped.

  McCade meant to send her there.

  Just as the last light slipped from her vision, the pressure eased, then ceased, the weight pinning her suddenly gone. As her senses returned, she registered only chaos, blows and curses falling onto someone nearby, bodies boiling up all around her, an arm around her shoulder, another at her waist lifting her. A familiar voice asking if she were all right, to please for the love of God answer.

  Franny. Franny’s arms were around her, Franny was begging her to answer.

  “I’m all right.” Her throat was aflame, but her voice was surprisingly intact. When she’d heard the crunch as he’d borne down, she’d thought her voice lost forever.

  The chaos slowly ebbed, became simply a gaggle of men o
nce more, their voices rising in time with a heavy thudding. There was a flurry of motion a few feet away, grunts rising from the melee—Juan had McCade facedown in the dirt and was raining his back with blows, each connection between Juan’s fist and the other man’s flesh forcing a groan from McCade.

  “It wasn’t just a rabbit,” Franny breathed. “It was him. Oh Isabel, I’m so, so, so sorry—”

  Isabel held up a hand, an ache rising behind her eyes. “It doesn’t matter.” Rather froglike, her voice. But still recognizably hers. “He’s caught.”

  Watching Juan smash McCade into the dirt wasn’t satisfying. There was only a creeping, chilled numbness, as if McCade had smashed her in the head again.

  “Juan, Juan, Juan!” Felipe called as he jogged up to the two men. “That’s enough. He’s down.”

  Her brother stepped back, but not before giving the fugitive one last kick.

  The men formed a circle around McCade, all watching as he kicked and writhed upon the ground, the way children might watch a worm wriggle in its death throes. There was an empty quality to the atmosphere surrounding them, as though everyone were deciding exactly what it should be filled with.

  Franny gave voice to what they all were thinking. “What now?”

  Isabel’s numbness slid away, leaving only naked fear behind, freezing up her joints, her skin feeling as if it were coated in frost.

  She couldn’t understand this, how the terror could be so much more potent after he’d been captured and was no longer a threat.

  Two of the men hauled him upright, hanging onto his arms on either side, while Juan watched with predatory intent. Blood trickled from a cut on McCade’s lip, and the redness high on his left cheek would soon turn to a purple-black bruise. In every aspect, he was defeated—collapsed, even.

  So why did her stomach continue to turn in on itself? She closed her eyes and raised a hand to her brow, the skin clammy under her shaking fingers.

  “Shoot him.”

  Her eyes flew open at her brother’s words, tossed off so carelessly.

  No. That was the word her lips wanted to say. But why should she give this man that consideration? He certainly hadn’t given it to Joaquin or herself. If he were dead, there would be no need for trial. He would simply disappear—and she could resume her life without the specter of him lurking over her.