by Prairie Heat
But even more disconcerting than her error in judgment was the knowledge that if Jess McCord died, she would be alone, stranded in the desert without food or protection.
She wasn’t completely incompetent, she mused, hoping to bolster her self-esteem. She was a fair hand with a needle, she could cook, she could read and write. She could even play the piano if no one was listening, but she was sadly lacking in the skills necessary to survive in this inhospitable land.
It was the thought of being alone in the wilderness that produced the courage she needed to jump from the side of the overturned Concord. She landed awkwardly, twisting her left ankle. For a moment, she sat in the dirt, feeling sorry for herself as she massaged her aching foot. Then she dashed the tears from her eyes and hurried to McCord’s side, ashamed that she had wasted time indulging in self-pity when McCord was badly hurt.
The warm scent of fresh blood made her slightly sick as she sat there, wondering how best to proceed. The wound in his leg was still bleeding, and his right shirt sleeve was stained with drying blood.
Matilda sat back on her heels, her expression thoughtful. She needed something to use for bandages, water to wash the wounds, matches for a fire.
Rising, she removed her hat, gloves and jacket, then limped toward the boot of the coach and pulled out her valise. Rummaging inside, she pulled out a clean white petticoat. It was part of her trousseau, and she stared at it for a moment, and then, with a sigh, she reached for her scissors and began cutting one of the ruffles into narrow strips.
Returning to McCord’s side, she rolled up his shirt sleeve and examined the wound. The bullet had plowed a shallow furrow in his arm just above the elbow. She was relieved to see the wound had stopped bleeding.
She didn’t know much about such things, but the injury to his arm didn’t seem serious. She was less certain about the wound in his leg. The sight of so much blood sickened her and she closed her eyes, wondering how Elias Kane could have done such a despicable thing.
Taking a deep breath, Matilda opened her eyes. She needed to get a better look at the wound. For a moment, she contemplated removing his Levis, but she couldn’t bring herself to remove his belt and unfasten the buttons. Instead, she used her scissors to slit the denim along the seam, revealing a muscular brown calf covered with fine black hair.
She had never seen a man’s naked leg before and she stared at it for several seconds. It was just a leg like her own, she told herself, and yet it was vastly different.
McCord groaned softly as she examined the wound. His blood was warm and sticky on her hand and she swallowed hard, fighting the urge to vomit.
When she was satisfied the bullet wasn’t lodged in his calf, she began to look for a canteen so she could rinse away the blood. It was then that she realized Kane had taken the canteens. All of them.
A very unladylike oath rose in her throat and she choked it back, appalled by what she had almost said.
Returning to McCord’s side once again, she wiped his leg clean as best she could with a strip of her petticoat, then used a second strip to bind the wound. She wrapped the last piece of cloth around his injured arm, then sat back on her heels, wondering what to do next. They had no food, no water and no weapons.
She sat at McCord’s side all that day, willing him to wake up, ignoring the two bodies that lay only a few yards away. Both had been scalped and she put the grisly thought from her mind, knowing she’d be ill if she didn’t. She saw buzzards circling in the distance, kept at bay by her presence. Unbidden, a mental image of hooked beaks and sharp talons rending human flesh came to her, and she forced that from her mind as well. The dead were beyond help. She would concentrate on keeping McCord alive.
Gradually, the sun slid behind the distant mountains and the land grew dark and quiet. The night brought a cool wind and after covering McCord with his long black coat, she wrapped her arms around her body, glancing nervously from side to side. Rocks and bushes took on ominous shapes as her imagination began to play tricks on her. Every sound was danger stalking her, every shadow a marauding Indian returning for her scalp.
If only she could have a fire. And then she remembered that McCord smoked cigars. He must have matches. Hesitantly, she poked around in his pockets until she found a small box of sulphur matches.
It took twenty minutes to find enough wood to start a fire and she huddled close to the small blaze, grateful for the light and the warmth.
Peering into the darkness, she wondered what kind of wild animals lurked beyond the flames, if Yellow Hawk had been carried off by the Indians that attacked the coach, if Jess McCord would ever regain consciousness. She thought briefly of Elias Kane and hoped his horse had gone lame, leaving him afoot in Indian country. Blast the man, she thought, licking her dry lips, he could have left them just one canteen.
It was late when McCord regained consciousness. He groaned as awareness returned and Matilda scrambled to his side, her heart filled with relief.
“How do you feel?” she asked anxiously.
“Like hell,” he replied hoarsely. “Could you get me some water?”
Matilda shook her head. “Kane took the canteens.”
“All of them?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Jess uttered a pithy curse word that did nothing to make him feel better. He hurt all over and there was no relief in sight. His right arm ached, his left arm throbbed from being shackled to the wheel, and his leg…
He grimaced as he remembered how Kane had ground his heel into the wound.
Weariness overcame his anger and he closed his eyes, welcoming the peaceful oblivion of sleep.
Matilda felt a sudden loneliness as McCord drifted to sleep. Tired and hungry and more frightened than she dared admit, Matilda curled up beside the fire and closed her eyes, certain sleep would never come.
*
Jess McCord grunted irritably as the rising sun coaxed him awake. It hadn’t been a nightmare, after all. His leg throbbed monotonously, and he was plagued by a raging thirst. He gazed at the bloody bandage wrapped around his calf and quietly cursed Elias Kane for kicking him when he was down, for shackling him to the heavy wooden wheel, for being a mean-spirited bastard.
Then, as his anger lessened, he cursed his own stupidity for not killing Kane when he’d had the chance. And now Kane was on the loose again. The only bright spot on the horizon was the fact that they had been stranded on a well-used trail.
Sooner or later, another coach would come along. He hoped it would be soon.
He struggled to sit up, wishing he had a bottle of good Kentucky bourbon to ease the pain in his leg and a fat Havana cigar to cut the bad taste in his mouth, and then he cursed Elias Kane because he knew he’d likely never enjoy either one again.
Glancing around, he saw Matilda Thornton curled up beside the ashes of a fire and he shook his head. Damn Kane, and damn him again for not taking the woman with him. Kane was a bastard and no mistake about it, but at least the woman would have had a chance with him. Out here, she had less than no chance at all unless another stage showed up mighty damn quick.
Hell and damnation. It had taken him six months to track Elias Kane, and now the devil was on the loose again.
He let out a long, weary sigh as he rested his head against the wheel and closed his eyes, his mind wandering back in time, back to Kathleen. Her image came quickly to mind, her bright blue eyes shining with love, her arms outstretched to welcome him home. He had never known anyone as kind, as beautiful. As tolerant. She had not cared that he was a half-breed, or that he was a lawman. She had accepted him for who and what he was without question or complaint, the mantle of her love enfolding him, erasing all the bad memories, all the pain and resentment of the past.
And then Kane had come to town. He’d robbed the bank, killed the banker, shot Kathleen and trampled a little girl in his haste to get out of town. And all for a lousy two hundred and sixteen dollars.
If he had gotten hold of Kane in those first black days
after Kathleen died, he would have skinned the man alive, gutted him and left his carcass for the wolves. But as the months passed, his hatred grew cold and he knew Kathleen would have been appalled at such violence, and so he had vowed to see Kane legally hanged, to stand in the front row and watch Kane’s body drop through the trapdoor, see his face turn purple and his tongue black as the life was choked from his body.
And now Kane was on the run again. Damn!
He opened his eyes to find Matilda Thornton staring down at him, a worried frown creasing her brow.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I guess so.”
“I looked after your wounds as best I could.”
He glanced at the bandage on his leg, recognizing it for what it was, and knew she’d torn up one of her petticoats. “Thanks.”
“I think I owe you an apology.”
“What the hell for?”
“I misjudged you. I thought you were a criminal, and that Mr. Kane was a lawman, and it seems just the opposite is true.”
“I’m not a lawman,” Jess said curtly.
He had stopped being a lawman the day Kathleen died.
Matilda frowned. “You’re not? Then what—?”
“I’m a bounty hunter.” He saw the disapproval in her eyes and wondered why he cared.
“Why didn’t the Indians kill us?”
Jess shrugged. “Damned if I know. Something might have scared them off. Or maybe they just wanted the horses. Comanches count their wealth in ponies.”
“Will they be back?”
“I doubt it. They killed two men. Most Indians won’t hang around a corpse for fear of ghosts.”
Was he joking? Surely a savage who killed without a qualm wouldn’t be afraid of ghosts.
Jess shifted uncomfortably on the hard ground. “I don’t suppose Kane left the key to these cuffs?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“How about taking a look under the driver’s seat? Daniels always carried a tool box. There might be a hand saw or a hammer inside. Something you can use to break this wheel.”
Matilda went to do as bidden, the words “bounty hunter” repeating in her mind. She had heard of such men, of course, men who brought criminals to justice for a price. She had been told that bounty hunters weren’t too particular about how they brought the fugitives in, not caring if the wanted man was dead or alive so long as they got paid, and she wished suddenly that McCord had killed Elias Kane. If he had, they wouldn’t be stuck out here in this Godforsaken land with no food and no water and no way to ride for help.
She was immediately smitten with remorse for entertaining such an uncharitable thought. It was sinful to wish harm upon another human being, almost the same as killing him. She didn’t know what crime Elias Kane had committed, but surely he deserved a fair trial…but maybe he didn’t. Leaving them without food or water in a place like this was the same as leaving them to die. Certainly no God-fearing man would be so callous as to ride off and leave two people stranded in the wilderness, at the mercy of wild animals and wild Indians.
She found the tool box wedged under the seat. Prying it out, she lifted the heavy wooden lid. Inside, she found a small handsaw, a couple of horseshoes, an extra set of reins, a large claw hammer, a small jug of whiskey and a bag of small, round, hard biscuits the likes of which she had never seen before.
She took the saw, the whiskey and the biscuits and carried them back to McCord.
Jess grinned when he saw the jug. “Good ol’ Luke,” he muttered.
“I’ve been told spirits are often good for easing one’s pain,” Matilda remarked as she handed him the whiskey.
“Yes ma’am,” Jess agreed, uncorking the jug. “I’ve heard that too.”
Matilda stared at him, one eyebrow raised as he took several long swallows. “Should you drink quite so much?”
“Purely medicinal, I assure you,” Jess replied. “Why don’t you take a whack at that wheel while I dose my wounds?”
With a nod, Matilda knelt beside him and began sawing the thick wooden spoke. She was aware of McCord’s nearness, of each swallow of whiskey he took, of the way his gaze wandered over her face and figure. She wondered suddenly if freeing his hand was such a good idea. She knew little of men, only what her mother had told her, and Ruth Conway had often warned her daughter to beware of inebriated men.
McCord glanced up as she stopped sawing. “What’s wrong?”
“I…nothing.”
“Get on with it then.”
She hesitated a moment more, then decided that, wounded or not, he might be of some help if the Indians came back. And if he dared to attack her while in a drunken state, she was certain she could outrun him, what with his wounded leg and all.
In minutes, his hand was free of the wagon wheel and he moved his arm back and forth, swearing softly as he worked the stiffness out.
“How will you get those off?” Matilda asked, gesturing at the handcuff swinging from his left wrist.
“Have to find a key, or a blacksmith,” Jess answered as he tucked the dangling cuff inside his shirt sleeve.
The handcuff was the least of their worries. “What’s in the bag?” he asked, setting the jug aside.
“Biscuits of some kind, I think.” She opened the sack so he could look inside.
“Corn dodgers,” Jess remarked. Taking one, he bit into it and shook his head. “They’re harder than hell. I wonder how long Daniels has been carrying these around.”
“Corn dodgers?” Matilda repeated.
“They’re made from corn and milk, or corn and water, and baked hard. Probably last forever.”
Matilda took one from the sack, looked at it suspiciously, and then took a bite. It was not as bad as she had feared, though it wasn’t what she’d call good either. But it did take the edge off her hunger and she ate three more, wishing she had something to wash them down with. She noticed McCord was drinking from the flask again.
Feeling her gaze, Jess held out the jug. “Go ahead, take a drink,” he urged. “It won’t hurt you.”
“I’ve never tasted spirits.”
“First time for everything,” he said with a shrug.
Matilda took the jug, stared at it a minute, then tilted it upward and took a long, thirsty swallow. She nearly gagged as the fiery liquid burned its way down her throat, bringing tears to her eyes.
Jess chuckled softly. The whiskey, raw Taos Lightning, brought a quick flush to Matilda Thornton’s cheeks and made her blue eyes sparkle. She coughed once and handed him the jug.
“How do you drink that stuff?” she gasped, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s awful.”
“You get used to it. Try it again.”
“No, thank you.”
Jess shrugged. Corking the jug, he set it aside. Whiskey was a wonderful cure-all, he thought. The ache in his arm was gone, the pain in his leg almost a memory. There was a pleasant warmth in his belly, and he thought he’d die a happy man if he could have just one more cigar.
“So, Matilda Thornton, what the hell are you doing way out here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You don’t belong here. You’ve got city girl written all over you.”
Matilda giggled. “Do I?” she asked, and giggled again. Whatever was wrong with her? she wondered. She never giggled. “I’m on my way to Tucson to meet my husband.”
“You’re married!” Jess exclaimed, and then grinned. Of course she was married. She’d introduced herself as Mrs. Thornton when they first met.
“Yes, I am. Why do you find that so hard to believe?”
McCord shrugged. “I dunno. I…never mind.”
“You thought I was an old maid.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m not. I have a husband and six children. Three boys and three girls.”
“No shit?”
“Mr. McCord, please mind your language.”
“Sorry. How old are they, these kids of
yours?”
“How old?” Matilda frowned, wondering whatever had prompted her to tell such an outrageous lie. “Let’s see, the eldest is, uh, seven, and the youngest is four.”
Jess cocked his head to one side, thinking that raw Taos Lightning certainly agreed with her. It had put color in her cheeks and taken some of the starch out of her spine. “How could you have six kids if the youngest is four and the oldest is seven?”
Matilda frowned again, realizing she was about to be caught in a lie, and then she grinned triumphantly. “I have three sets of twins!”
Jess McCord laughed out loud. It was a deep husky laugh, decidedly masculine, and it sent shivers of delight down Matilda’s spine. He was devastatingly handsome when he laughed. Tiny lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes, erasing the hard forbidding look she’d grown accustomed to. His teeth were very white against his sun-bronzed skin.
“You’re a quick thinker, Mrs. Thornton,” Jess allowed. “I’ll give you that.”
“But you don’t believe me?”
“Not for a minute.”
“Well, it’s true nonetheless.”
He lifted one thick black brow as he gazed at her trim figure. It was definitely not the figure of a woman who had borne six children, he’d bet his life on it.
Matilda flushed under his prolonged gaze. He was wonderful to look at. She could not help but admire his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms and legs. A day’s growth of beard gave him a roguish appeal, increasing his masculinity. It was most disconcerting.
“What are we going to do?” she asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from her nonexistent family.
“Just sit tight. There should be another stage in a couple of days.”
Of course, Matilda thought, relieved. Another stage. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Things weren’t as bad as she’d imagined, after all, as long as the Indians didn’t come back. Thoughts of Indians brought the Apache boy to mind.
“What do you suppose happened to Yellow Hawk?”
“I don’t know. Probably the Comanche took him. He’ll be all right,” Jess said, seeing her concern. “Indians love kids. They’ll adopt him into the tribe, treat him like one of their own.”
