Seduced by an Angel (Velvet Lies, Book 3)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  An eternity crawled by as Cass listened for the sounds of spurs and creaking leather, indicating that the outlaws had mounted up.

  Another eternity stretched before the gravel-crunching and twig-cracking of the horses faded into silence.

  "Sonuvabitch," he panted, slumping against the wood pile. The area around the bite was already swelling. Even if he wanted to suck out the poison, he wasn't enough of a contortionist—despite the claims of Wicked Wilma's gals—to reach the puncture wound on the back of his calf.

  He couldn't afford to lollygag; he had to ride. That meant that he couldn't elevate his limb to slow the spread of poison. Soon the tremors would start, along with the weakness and dizziness, and eventually, unconsciousness.

  Where the hell is Lynx when I need him?

  Gritting his teeth against the torment, Cass used his rifle butt to heave himself to his feet. Every step was like walking on burning coals. He was wheezing and the ground was spinning by the time he reached his horse, tethered a good 300 yards away behind an ancient mound of moss-covered avalanche.

  As a stranger to these hills, Cass didn't know the lay of the land. He figured if he could track the hillbilly's horse, the roan would lead him into town to a doctor. Or at least, to someone who could fetch a doctor. Cass didn't have a better idea, and he didn't have time to think of one.

  He heaved himself into the saddle. Sweat stung his eyes. He was having trouble breathing.

  Yanking Jellico's head around, Cass spurred the gelding after the hillbilly's roan. He didn't know how long he trotted, weaving back and forth in the saddle, until an intersection with a trio of signposts swam into view:

  Sundowner Lumber Company, 6 miles.

  Blue Thunder, 2 miles.

  Thunder Valley Orphanage, ½ mile.

  Cass turned his horse toward the orphanage road.

  Heading north was the last thing he remembered before the sky opened up, and the rain started pounding on his head.

  Chapter 11

  Against the backdrop of gossiping matrons and leap-frogging children, Sera quietly let the church gate latch behind her. As unobtrusively as possible, she walked along the fence, avoiding eye contact with any of the young men who hailed her from the pancake breakfast.

  Her eyes were puffy, her nose was stuffy, and her throat ached. She'd tried bravely not to cry during Henry's seven o'clock service, when he'd asked the congregation to kneel and pray for the everlasting health of Ben Truitt and Jesse Quaid. In fact, she'd tried so hard not to weep, that Michael had growled at her to stop grinding her teeth, and Eden had murmured, "Honey, are you coming down with the sniffles?"

  The trouble with having two healers as kinfolk was that Sera couldn't plead even the most minor ailment whenever she wanted to renege on a social commitment.

  So after the service, she'd stood at the church breakfast, her smile as frozen as a China doll's face, and passed out dollops of syrup and jam.

  Sera hadn't thought that ghastly farce of good cheer would ever end.

  Now she was winding through yellowbell bushes that eventually gave way to chokecherries, red maples, and finally, to the forest's edge. Her goal was to flee her brother and his wife. In an effort not to raise her kinfolk's suspicions, Sera had confided to Bonnie Frothingale, the president of the Ladies Aid Society, that she'd left a candle burning in her bedroom.

  For some mysterious reason, Bonnie had started being nice to Eden last autumn, right before her rather hasty marriage to Luke, and now the two former rivals for Michael's affection actually behaved civilly to each other. Since Bonnie couldn't keep a secret to save her life, Sera had figured that Bonnie would eventually spread her lie, telling Eden that Sera had hurried home early to keep the house from burning down.

  But of course, Sera hadn't even lit a lamp since dinnertime.

  No, Sera was headed home for her boots and a change of clothes. Then she planned to ride Tempest to some friendly cave, far from the eyes and ears of pesky congregants, so she could safely weep and wail and curse the black day when she'd first met Jesse Quaid.

  But she hadn't realized how fast Bonnie would spread her little white lie.

  By the time Sera had skirted the half mile of red-brick buildings that formed Blue Thunder proper, hoof beats were pounding behind her. Daring to hope, she dashed away tears and turned eagerly toward the sound.

  But the rider wasn't an apologetic Jesse, who'd had a change of heart.

  No, Collie was cantering toward her on Nag. How he'd gotten that old lazy bones to run was a bonafide miracle.

  Steeling herself to patience, she waited for him. Collie directed Nag along the shortest route to reach her: straight across a brushy incline that hadn't yet dried from the storm two nights earlier. When he reined in beside her, she could see that he was splattered with flecks of mud. His narrow chin and aquiline nose reminded her of a hungry coyote. When he tossed his sun-bleached hair out of his eyes, she caught a whiff of lemongrass, pine smoke, and gun-cleaning solvent.

  The latter scent was faintly alarming. Collie was 16-years-old, going on 30.

  "Jeez," he greeted her. "Have you been crying over a stupid old candle? The house ain't burned down yet! I just checked it myself."

  She shook her head. With Collie, she never had to pretend, which was one of the traits she'd always loved about him—the way she'd loved her brother, Gabriel.

  "It's not the candle," she admitted.

  The boy's pewter gaze narrowed, growing flinty with sparks. "What'd the bastard do?"

  "Don't be silly. Henry didn't—"

  "Hell, I ain't talking about Four-Eyes. I'm talking about Quaid. That Injun damned near takes your clothes off every time he looks at you."

  Sera's cheeks burned. So much for Jesse's secret heritage.

  Her eyes drifted to the shotgun that protruded from Nag's saddleboot. She bit her lip. "Jesse didn't do anything."

  "You're a lousy liar."

  "That's what happens when you're raised by a preacher."

  Collie snorted. "Jest takes practice, is all." He extended a man-sized hand that looked too large for his wrist. "Here. Mount up. I'll take you home 'fore you sink in a bog."

  She had to admit, walking a half mile in tiny, spiked heels had lost its appeal long before she'd reached the forest path.

  He helped her swing into the saddle behind him. When she wrapped her arms around his midsection, she learned that Collie wasn't all bone. Every rib on his torso was packed in sinew, reminding her of a mountain weasel.

  "You don't have to protect me all the time," she grumbled in his ear. "I already have a guardian."

  "Yeah? Well, he can't shoot worth a damn."

  "Collie MacAffee, so help me God, I shall never forgive you if you plug one of my beaux!"

  He slid a cagey look at her over his shoulder before spurring Nag into a trot.

  "Never's a long time."

  "Stop that. You can't solve all the world's problems with a knife or a gun."

  "How 'bout fists?"

  "Don't get me started."

  A fine drizzle was falling by the time Nag reached the crossroads. Sera clung to Collie's warmth and tried not to think about her skirts, which were flecked in mud spatters and horse hair. Laura Clay wouldn't have worried about a silly dress, Sera told herself staunchly. In fact, she suspected that Laura Clay would have ridden a horse in pantaloons—whether her man approved of such scandalous attire or not.

  Sera tried to picture the kind of lover that Laura Clay might accept. But the only face that Sera could picture was copper-skinned with panther-green eyes.

  Jesse.

  Her heart started hurting all over again.

  Collie reined in. His head was cocked, and he was frowning.

  "What is it?" she asked uneasily.

  Thunder rumbled into silence. Now even she could hear the jingle of a bridle. A soft whinny hailed Nag.

  Sera narrowed her eyes, following the sounds to a blood bay gelding, about 30 paces off the orphan road. The a
nimal, which bore a fancy, western saddle equipped with a Winchester rifle and a Whitney shotgun, had somehow trailed its reins through a bush and gotten snared. Considering that anyone who could physically mount a horse was still in town, enjoying the pancake breakfast, the presence of a riderless gelding this far from the commercial district was peculiar.

  "I ain't ever seen that horse before," Collie murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear.

  Sera considered his quietness a precaution, not a warning. Collie knew every local horse, saddle, and carriage by sight (apparently this intelligence helped him discern lawmen from lumberjacks.)

  However, as she had explained to Jesse six weeks earlier, Blue Thunder was too far off the beaten track to attract drifters. Maybe somebody in town had bought a new horse.

  Reaching for his shotgun, Collie dismounted. "Stay here."

  "I'm not letting you go kill someone!"

  She jumped down, spraying mud all over his trousers.

  He shot her a withering glare. "Next, I'll be untangling your she-stuff from a bush."

  She hiked her chin. Gathering her damp skirts, she tied them the best that she could just below her knees. "Better?"

  "I never knew you had chicken legs."

  "I do not, brat!"

  He grinned, but his amusement was fleeting. He was studying the ground.

  "Don't you think we should rescue the horse?" she asked.

  "Mebbe."

  He was strolling along the road, following the tracks that had doubled back from the orphanage. In protective, big-sister style, she trailed after him, leading Nag.

  "See that?"

  "What?" she demanded.

  "These prints aren't as deep as the ones up yonder."

  "So?"

  "So... that bay has been walking on its own for a spell."

  "What happened to the rider?"

  "Fell off, maybe."

  She wrinkled her nose. "Drunk?"

  "Could be."

  Suddenly, he squatted. A soggy, black Stetson had fallen, bottom-side-up, and was partially obscured by a patch of ferns. Collie's expression shifted from wary, to covetous, to wary, all in the space of a heartbeat. Dumping out the rain water, he plunked the hat over his head.

  "I think you'd look more dapper in a derby," she teased.

  "Nice try," he retorted, straightening. He knocked the brim back to a jauntier angle. "Finders keepers."

  "Does that mean I get to keep the bay?"

  "Nope. I found him too."

  "Horse feathers."

  A low, masculine moan reached her ears.

  Their eyes locked.

  About 20 yards further up the road, the bushes had been badly broken on the right side of the forest's edge. It looked like somebody had crashed through the underbrush from a great height—like a horse's back.

  Sera grabbed Collie's belt loop.

  He swatted her hand away, tightening his grip over the shotgun.

  Together, they prowled those 20, nerve-wracking yards to find the source of the moan.

  It turned out to be a young man.

  By some miracle, he hadn't broken his neck, although there were scratches on his darkly tanned face, most likely from his fall. Despite his earlier moan, he appeared to be unconscious. He was sprawled on his back in a litter of leaves, twigs, and peat.

  He was dressed completely in black, from his shirt and trousers, to his gunbelt and boots. The only exceptions to this rule were his snow-white hair, silver buckle and rowels, and the walnut-inlaid butt of his Colt. The bandanna that wrapped his right leg below the knee was drenched with blood. Sera glimpsed abnormal swelling in his calf. She frowned.

  "Snakebite," Collie grunted. "Copperhead, most likely. They don't give out a warning. They just strike the dumbass who gets close enough to step on 'em."

  Sera blew out her breath. Michael had once told her that 98 percent of all snakebite complaints in Blue Thunder Valley were due to copperheads, so Sera figured that Collie was right.

  "Get the anti-venom from Claudia's saddlebag," Sera told him.

  Collie tossed their unconscious patient another suspicious look. "Don't you need to stick him with a needle?"

  "Yes, now hurry!"

  Sera knelt beside the young man. When she smoothed the hair from his brow, she saw the tell-tale patch of white, which cued her that the black Stetson belonged to him.

  As if there's any doubt!

  "Mister?" she murmured, worried by the rapid flutter of the pulse in his throat.

  His golden eyelashes flickered. Moaning again, he rolled his head. Pain glazed the intensely blue eyes that finally focused on her. Despite the trickle of blood from the scratch on his chin, and the purplish bruise on his left temple, he was breathtaking to gaze upon—like an angel, who'd lost his wings and crashed to earth. Her girl's heart quickened. It was hard not to be dazzled by so much masculine beauty.

  "Is anything broken, mister?"

  Grimacing, he shook his head. "Billy," he wheezed, clutching the hand that she'd reached for his heart.

  "Um... Billy. All right. I'm going to roll up your sleeve. I'll need to inject the anti-venom. No! No, don't sit. You'll spread the venom."

  "It's too late for that, darlin'."

  He flailed in her arms, acting groggy and disoriented.

  Until Collie returned.

  The minute the boy bobbed into view, carrying his shotgun by the barrel and Claudia's medical kit by the strap, Billy shoved her sideways. He reached for his Colt. His reactions were viper fast. If Sera hadn't felt the coiling of his muscles beneath her fingertips, she would have thought that Billy's gun had materialized magically in his fist.

  Collie blinked at the revolver aimed so steadily at his chest.

  "That's my hat," Billy challenged in a gravelly, Texas baritone.

  Collie scowled. It was too late now to raise the shotgun to defend himself. "Yeah?"

  But Collie was half weasel, with a good deal of coyote mixed in. He had the audacity to snort. "How 'bout I trade you for the anti-venom, dumbass?"

  Billy's eyes narrowed, sizing Collie up. After a harrowing moment, he eased the trigger back into place. "Deal."

  Collie tossed the medical kit so that it landed squarely on Billy's crotch. The Texican choked out an oath, rocking forward.

  "Collie!" Sera chided. "Show a little compassion!"

  "I ain't apologizin' fer nuthin'. That bastard cocked a gun at me."

  "He has a point," Billy wheezed, his face now flooded with color. "I would've thrown the bag in the same place—if I'd thought of it."

  "Don't encourage him," Sera said, "and stop rocking."

  Gingerly, she retrieved the kit from the circle of Billy's thighs. Setting the leather valise before her knees, she muttered a prayer under her breath as she struggled with the buckle on the strap. "Keep your arms raised. Put your hands over your heart."

  "You know what you're doing?"

  She nodded grimly. "My brother's a doctor. As soon as Collie and I get you to a bed at the orphanage, we'll send for him."

  She didn't bother to add that the loss of Billy's limb might not be the worst that could happen if he'd been bitten more than an hour ago.

  His wolfish teeth flashed in a grimace-smile. "Who's Collie? Your kid brother?"

  "Close enough."

  "Quit whispering," Collie snapped at Billy, the shotgun cradled across his forearm. "And keep yer hands off her, where I can see 'em. Otherwise, yer balls are gonna be a whole lot flatter."

  "Honestly, Collie."

  Billy half chuckled, half panted as Sera found the package of cotton-wrapped vials. She searched next for a syringe.

  Finally, she wriggled closer, hunting for the vein on the inside of his elbow.

  "This might hurt—"

  "Just do it," he said brusquely.

  She did, holding her breath all the while.

  They exhaled at the same time.

  "Thanks, angel. Don't worry about me. I've survived worse."

&nbs
p; She nodded, pasting on a smile.

  "All right, Miss Sera," Collie said grimly. "It's done. You did your Sammertun work. I'm taking you home."

  "Sammertun?" Billy whispered to her.

  "Good Samaritan." When Billy still looked unsure of her meaning, she added, "Biblical reference."

  "Ah."

  She wondered if he'd ever cracked open a Bible, or if he could even read.

  "The anti-venom doesn't work that fast, Collie. He'll need to be watched for a couple of days."

  "Yeah?" Collie scowled. "I don't suppose we can leave him here and tell Doc where to find him?"

  "No, we most certainly cannot!"

  "Well, I ain't leaving you alone, Miss Sera. Not with folks getting shot in the back around here," he added in dire tones.

  Sera started. It had never occurred to her that Billy might have shot Sheriff Truitt.

  Billy tossed her a sideways look, as if sensing her uneasiness. "A relation of yours?"

  "No, but... folks in these parts care about one another. And Sheriff Truitt is a good man."

  Billy's expression grew grim. "So that's the mess," he muttered so softly, that Sera had to strain to hear.

  He directed another measuring stare at Collie. "You MacAffee's boy?"

  Collie's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What's it to you?"

  "Nothing. Except I get thirsty for moonshine, sometimes."

  "Like hell."

  "Collie," Sera interceded, "what's that thing you always say about daylight when we need to hurry?"

  "We're burning daylight," Cass and Collie answered in unison.

  Collie glared at the Texican.

  Cass's lips quirked.

  Sera cleared her throat. "Well, we are," she told the boy. "So fetch Nag. Please hurry. Billy can't walk on that leg."

  "Don't think I ain't got eyes in the back of my head, Texican," Collie growled.

  Amusement pierced through the glaze in Billy's stare as Collie stumped away. "That boy sure has a bad case of Cupid Cramps," he whispered. "Not that I can blame him, Miss Sera."

  Her eyebrows knitted at the unfamiliar term. "Cupid Cramps?"

  Billy chuckled. It was a raspy sound, harsh with the pain he was trying to ignore. "Reckon you break a new beau's heart every day."