Joe, only Joe, had kept her going these last few hours. Knowing that he was behind her, doggedly trailing her every move, had given her strength. Without it, without him, she felt more alone than she would have thought possible for a dream.
Killian's footsteps crunched through the darkness for a moment, then stopped. Leather creaked tiredly as he
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swung into the saddle. He made a soft clucking sound and urged his mount forward.
She let out her breath in a trembling, exhausted sigh. Her hard-won courage slipped a notch; she fought to reel it back in, wind it around her.
She needed to wake up, needed to wake up now. But she had no idea how to do it. No idea at all how to end this dream. Frustration clawed at her, made her want to scream and cry and pound her fists.
Opening her tired, gritty eyes, she stared into the nothingness of the night and kept going.
It was the only choice she had.
Chapter Eight
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Sounds drifted toward Lainie, taunted the ragged edges of her consciousness. She lifted her head and blinked tiredly.
The world was still inky black. They were in a seemingly endless tunnel, full of twists and turns and switchbacks. Sheer stone walls curled around them, forced them to ride single file. For hours, no sounds or light had infiltrated the darkness; nothing except the steady clip-clop of hooves on slick rock.
Now, suddenly, she heard something.
She pried a hand free of the saddle horn and rubbed her aching eyes. She swallowed thickly, unable to form enough saliva to wet her parched throat.
"Whoa, boy." Killian's gravelly voice floated back to her. It was the first time he'd spoken in ages. In his words, she heard the same bone-deep exhaustion she felt.
Lainie drew back on her reins. She started to speak, but gave up when she heard the feeble, scratchy sound of her voice.
From somewhere came the rumble of throaty laughter, the whispery buzz of raised voices. Killian turned sharply to the left and went a few feet, then turned to the right.
Her booted feet grazed the sheer stone walls. Sand 96
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rained down at the touch, pattered softly on the slick rock floor. Outside, the sounds became louder.
They kept moving, silently plodding forward. After a long while�Lainie had long since discarded any hope of measuring time�she noticed an eerie gray light at the end of the tunnel. Killian turned in to it and disappeared.
Lainie's heartbeat sped up. Anxiety rejuvenated her. Afraid to be left alone, she kicked her horse to a trot and followed him.
Lainie burst from the tunnel's darkness and found herself in the midst of a laughing, talking crowd.
At her appearance, every voice died. Dozens of dirty male faces peered up at her, their countenances distorted and frightening in the bluish moonlight.
There was a slight pause before one of the men chuckled. It was a throaty, slurred sound that burst through the silence like gunfire. "You brung us a woman."
"I get her first," another man yelled. "Henry was first last time."
For an instant, Lainie couldn't breathe. Killian's threat flooded back to her. It doesn't mean I won't let someone else hurt you.... If you lag behind, I'll strip every piece of clothing from your body and let you ride into the hideout stark naked. . . .
She fought for strength, or at least the appearance of it. Killian�even Killian�wouldn't do this to her, wouldn't throw her to this crowd.
Would he?
God help her, she wasn't sure.
The men moved forward, pressing in on her. She heard their breathing, the throaty, coughing sounds of their laughter, the whispered words of encouragement to one another.
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Damp fingers curled around her ankle. She tried to kick out, but her captor laughed and pulled hard.
She flew sideways, landed in a dozen outstretched arms. Hands pawed at her, tangled in her hair, touched her face, her lips. The earthy odor of unwashed bodies and sour breath slammed into her nostrils, gagged her.
Panic pulsed through her blood, making her feel sick and queasy. She opened her mouth to yell for Killian, to curse him or beg for help�she didn't even know what�but nothing came out except a shrill, hysterical scream.
The crowd's laughter grew louder.
A sob caught in her throat. She tried to tell herself it was just a dream, nothing to worry about, but she couldn't calm herself with the familiar words. Fear sucked her in, made her fight like a wildcat. Gasping for air, she twisted and tried to wrench free.
Then she saw him. Killian sat on his horse, his hat drawn low on his forehead, his reins looped around his saddle horn. He was staring at the moon, his face dispassionate. Suddenly she remembered the moment on the cliff today, and the understanding she'd seen in his eyes.
"Killian." She screamed his name again and again until he looked at her.
Slowly he turned, and in the half-darkness, their gazes locked. She clenched her jaw and held back tears by sheer force of will. She wanted to speak, to shame him into stopping this.
Instead she just looked at him. Don't let them do this to me, she thought. Think of Emily.. . .
He blanched suddenly, as if she'd spoken. She thought he was going to reach for his gun, but he didn't. His eyes narrowed, his gloved hands curled into tense, dangerous fists. He looked away, stared for a long time
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at the cliffs in the distance, then, slowly, reluctantly, he turned back to her.
When their gazes met, she felt an electrical jolt that struck her at the core of her being. Something passed between them in that look, something dark and dangerous .. . and familiar. In that instant, that heartbeat of time, she saw something in him that couldn't possibly exist, something she hadn't written.
He slid down from the black and dropped to the ground. He strode toward her, his footsteps silent, his eyes fixed on hers.
The crowd parted. Hands peeled away from Lainie's body, leaving warm, sweaty imprints on her flesh. She staggered to a stand and hugged herself, battling the sudden chill of the night.
Killian stopped beside her. He touched the tender flesh beneath her chin and forced her gaze upward. The frayed, roughened leather of his glove was damp and unforgiving. Reluctantly she looked at him.
He was so close, she could smell the masculine leather and woodsmoke and dust scent of his clothing, feel his breathing against the damp flesh of her forehead.
She felt his gaze, narrow and probing, on her face, stabbing deep beneath the veneer of calm. In the darkness of his eyes, she saw a hint of her own reflection, and knew somehow that he saw more than she wanted to reveal.
"Ask me for help," he said softly, running a finger up her throat.
Lainie swallowed hard, hating him in that instant more than she'd ever hated another human being. "Please ..." A sickening sense of shame curdled in her stomach. She couldn't believe she was letting him do this to her. "Please don't let them hurt me."
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"Who's boss in this place?"
Hating him, loathing him. "You are."
He looked away from her, staring out at the crowd. The moment seemed to stretch into forever, a pregnant, poignant silence. The bastard knew that every breath, every second, was interminable for her.
"Okay, boys," he said at last, his rumbling, tobacco-graveled voice serrating the quiet. "Nobody fucks her but me."
"Nobody whatT Lainie said. The fear vanished as quickly as it had come, swept aside by a rising tide of fury so raw and elemental, she staggered at the force of it.
Killian looked down at her, frowning. "Nobody fu�"
She slapped him across the face, hard. "Don't you dare repeat it." She realized a half second too late what she'd done. The crowd drew in a collective gasp. Utter silence crashed into the clearing.
Killian grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her to him. She blinked up, trying to force her trembling lips to form a smile. "I didn't mean it. .. ."
Killian raised
a hand to her. Instinct told her to flinch, to shrink back, but years of experience kept her motionless. If anything, the familiarity of his movement gave her strength, returned her equilibrium. She'd faced this moment a hundred times in her life, maybe more.
She straightened, met his gaze head-on.
His hand froze in midair. A heavy frown folded across his forehead. Slowly his hand lowered.
"Goddamn it," he hissed, grabbing her arm.
Wordlessly he yanked her toward him and pushed through the crowd, dragging her along beside him. There was a mumble of dissension as she left, a grumbling of malcontent.
She stumbled along beside Killian, trying to believe
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that this was all a dream�nothing more�but something was wrong.
It didn't feel like a dream. Even though it was weird and inexplicable and everything a dream should be, it felt ... real. Suddenly all she could think about were the discrepancies, the things that didn't fit. Like no Bloody Gorge, no rescue, no sheriff interrupting the robbery.
She pushed the thoughts away with a shiver.
It was a dream, damn it. What else could it possibly be?
All of a sudden, it was gone. The adrenaline and fear that had sustained Lainie for the last few minutes evaporated, leaving in its stead a bone-deep weariness. She couldn't remember when she'd been so completely depleted, so utterly exhausted. And she'd had a lifetime of tired with which to compare it.
"You're lagging," Killian said, yanking her forward.
She stumbled along to keep up with him, her small legs trying to match his punishing stride.
Moonlight drizzled through the layer of haze overhead, punching through the clouds in spears of blue-white light, illuminating the outlaw's hideout.
They were in a narrow, twisting valley not more than a half mile across. Sheer rock cliffs ringed the hideout, loomed in the darkness like the folded wings of some giant bird of prey. Meager moonlight lent the valley an illusory, dreamlike softness. The sharp odor of sulfur hung in the air.
Lainie tried to look around, tried to care where she was and what the hideout looked like, but it was impossible. Her eyes were gritty with fatigue; opening them burned and brought tears.
Finally Killian stopped at a small one-room cabin
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built of split logs. He yanked on the leather thong that held the door closed, and the planked slab swung open with an echoing creak.
"Wait here." He went inside, disappearing almost immediately into the smelly gloom of the cabin. She heard his footsteps clumping across the planked floor, then the sharp scratch of a match being struck. A tenuous yellow light appeared in the darkness, gaining strength as Killian touched the lighted match to a lantern wick.
He set the lantern down on a table. "Come in."
"What? You aren't going to carry me across the threshold?" She felt her way through the open doorway.
The first thing she noticed was the smell�old food and must�the second was the bed.
Singular. The bed.
She thought briefly about throwing a fit. But frankly, she was too tired. She'd sleep with Hannibal Lecter if she had to. Anyone, anywhere. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and forget about this horrific nightmare. She leaned against the splintery doorjamb and closed her eyes. The even rise and fall of her own breathing calmed her. She felt as if she were floating, her fingertips tingled.
She was close�really close�to falling asleep. She knew the signs, the sensations that told her the end was near. Finally.
There was a creak of tired leather and the thump of chair legs hitting the wooden floor. "Okay, who the hell are you?"
She forced her eyelids open, and winced at the pain of the action. Fatigue blurred her vision, turned the man seated at the table into a shadowy, black-hatted blur. "Not tonight. I'm really tired."
"Oh, and I give a shit about that."
Lainie felt a grudging smile start. The tingling in her
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fingertips moved outward, splayed across her hands, and shot up her arms. Dizziness came at her hard, sending a spray of stars across her hazy field of vision. She swayed. "You're going to have to."
"Why's that?"
She gave him a tired, watery smile and fell forward. The dirty black floor smacked her hard in the nose. A small, thankful sigh escaped her chapped lips.
"Christ!" Killian jerked out of his seat and lurched toward her, dropping to his knees at her shoulder. She lay sprawled on the cold, dirty floor, her face pressed against the wood, her arms motionless at her sides.
She was out cold.
He sighed and sat back on his heels. Tossing his hat onto the bed, he shoved a hand through his dirty hair.
What in the hell was he supposed to do with her?
Everything about the woman mystified him. She was unlike any female he'd ever met: sharp-tongued, opinionated, even crude. She didn't seem to care about anyone or anything�not even herself.
It was a detachment he understood all too well. He'd lived like that for years.
He surged to his feet and backed away from the woman lying on his floor. He didn't want to understand anything about her. All he wanted were answers, then he could send her on her way.
Spinning on his heel, he crossed the tiny cabin and yanked a bottle of whiskey from the overturned soup crate that held his provisions. He took the cork in his teeth and pulled it out, spitting it into the darkness of the corner, then took a long, satisfying drink. The booze burned a trail down his throat and warmed his insides.
Reluctantly he looked at the woman. Alaina, she'd called herself. Alaina Costanza.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and reached for
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the lantern, curling his fingers around its cold metal handle. Lifting it, he brought the light to the woman and kneeled once again beside her.
Even in sleep, there was a sadness to her features. Her eyes were closed, her lashes sealed in a jet black half-moon against her skin, but he could visualize their gray-green depths. They held a dozen secrets, those eyes, each of them dark and disturbing. In her eyes was a look he knew all too well�the look of someone who'd seen the underbelly of life and walked away, but never escaped.
A strange tingle traced his fingertips, and he realized that he wanted to touch her. He clenched his hand into a fist, surprised by his response to her. He hadn't wanted a woman in years.
And yet, he was drawn to her in some indefinable way. He wanted to feel the soft arch of her throat, trace the full lips that even in sleep held a downward curve of sorrow. He felt�insanely�that the sadness didn't belong there, that he'd seen her once without it.
"Who are you, Alaina Costanza?" he whispered, hearing the tired harshness in his voice.
At the sound of his voice, she moved slightly, let out a sigh that somehow stirred his heart. It was a quiet, squeaking sound that started an ache of loneliness in Killian's exhausted soul.
It didn't make a lick of sense.
He eased away from her, shaking his head. Hell, he didn't want it to make any sense. He didn't want to have a reaction to her at all.
He slid his arms underneath her body and scooped her up, carrying her to the bed. She curled immediately in a self-protective ball on the gunmetal gray woolen blanket. The sagging, half-empty pillow looked harsh and dirty against her pale skin.
105 she whis-
A tiny smile pulled at her lips. "John . pered, his name tangled in a sleepy sigh.
Killian stood rooted to the spot, more afraid at that moment than he'd ever been in his life.
This woman would kill him. He knew it suddenly, in the way of a gunman who is facing a better shot. She would kill him.
And there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.
Chapter Nine
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Killian sat on the edge of the bed. The sagging leather thongs beneath the mattress creaked at his weight. He eased off his boots and tossed them into the darkened corner, where they landed wit
h a thwack. His hat and shirt were the next to go. He unbuttoned the rough cotton shirt and tossed it toward his boots. It sailed through the air like a dirty surrender flag and landed in a heap atop his boots. Then he took off his jeans.
Slowly, reluctantly, he stood. Cold seeped through the floorboards and invaded his woolen stockings. He shivered as the night air caressed his bare chest.
Behind him, the woman made a quiet sound.
He crawled into bed beside her. As he drew his legs onto the bed, she made another sound and rolled onto her stomach.
He looked down, knowing immediately that it was a mistake. She lay with her face to him, her left hand so close to his body that he felt warmth from her fingertips. Black hairs fanned out roosterlike from her forehead, brushed the nape of her neck. The silver hoops in her ears glinted in the lamplight. She looked innocent in sleep, peaceful in a way he hadn't seen before, her sharp features softened by the dirty white blur of the pillow beneath her head. Her puffy lips, as soft and
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smooth as the pinkened underside of a shell, drew his gaze and held it.
He reached out, almost touched her before he stopped himself. His hand hovered above her back. Warmth seeped up from her body, traced the sensitive flesh of his palm. He moved his hand slowly, an inch above her back, down the length of her spine. When he finished, his fingers were trembling and his mouth was dry. He fisted his hand and brought it back to his side.
He leaned sideways and extinguished the lantern, then slid down in the bed and lay still, drawing the blanket up to his chin. The gentle ebb and flow of her breathing filled the room, echoed in the darkness, and felt painfully familiar.
It's not her. It has nothing to do with her.
A tightness squeezed his chest until it hurt to breathe. He sighed, hearing in the silence the tired harshness of the sound. It had been so long�a lifetime�since the loneliness had gnawed at him, left his insides ragged and drained.
But now, with her lying still and vulnerable beside him, he realized the burden of his isolation; it crushed against his lungs, squeezed his throat. He hadn't lain in bed with a sleeping woman since Emily.
Emily.
Those days came back to him, oozing up from the darkness of his past. He had taken it for granted then, that he could crawl into bed with his wife and hold her tight. He had drawn her close, held her thoughtlessly against him, never once realizing the impermanence of it all, never thinking that in the blink of an eye it could be ripped from him.
When Lightning Strikes Page 9
