by Brenda Joyce
She grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around herself. She didn't say anything.
He turned away, shaking. Then he whirled around. "I'd give you my word, but that wouldn't be good enough for you, would it?"
She was always surprising him. She surprised him now. "I'll take your word."
"You have it."
He found the other bedroll and shook it out, ignoring her. Why in hell had he gotten so upset? Why did she have this power over him? He pinched out the flame of the candle. No other woman, not Marianne, not even Carmen, pushed him so far. In fact, with other women, even a selfish bitch like Carmen, he was always detached, always in control. More disturbed than ever, and secretly, very secretly, afraid, he lay down. He was exhausted, but he was much too agitated to sleep.
Rather than take all the rooms behind the dirty saloon, they preferred to make a camp just outside the village. But the night was endless and Rathe couldn't stand it, not when he was filled with such fear for his daughter. And it didn't matter that his father had tried to reassure him, time and again. Derek was convinced that he was a good judge of character and that Shoz Cooper would not hurt Lucy even though he had abducted her. In fact, now that he had his stud back and was calmer himself, he found it hard to believe that Shoz was even a horse thief. The man who had bought Thunder in Abilene had now identified Red and Jake conclusively as the thieves. Warrants were out for their arrest. Derek found it very strange that Shoz would join forces with the two thugs he had slugged it out with. And if he hadn't been one of the thieves? Maybe desperation had motivated him to use Lucy to escape jail, a last resort of no choice. Rathe had coldly pointed out that his police record was a hard fact. Derek had no answer to this.
Most of the posse was asleep, snug in their bedrolls around the two campfires. Rathe stood, pulling on his boots. He could not stay there, tossing and turning and thinking.
"Where are you going?'' On the ground beside him, Nick
sat up, speaking softly so as not to disturb anyone. "I need a drink."
"I'll come with you." Agilely, Nick was on his feet.
"Thanks." Rathe needed the company. And his older brother was solid and reassuring and someone he could lean on.
Their father was asleep, but Nick stooped to tell Brett where they were going. D'Archand hadn't been sleeping; he had been talking quietly with his wife, who was curled up next to him. "I'll come with you," Brett said. "I don't like the look of that town."
Storm raised herself up on an elbow, a question in her eyes. He kissed her forehead. "Stay and get some sleep, darling," he said huskily. "Your brother shouldn't go alone."
"Be careful." The smile she gave him was very, very soft, a look reserved exclusively for her husband. No matter how often they had seen it, it always surprised her brothers, who still saw her as the tough tomboy she had been when she was a girl.
The camp was only a short walk from the main street. The village was black as pitch, except for the saloon. It was lit up brighter than a Christmas tree.
The threesome stepped within. The saloon was empty except for one table of poker players, including the owner, whose name, they had learned earlier, was Fernando. The village had already been taken by surprise with their arrival; now no one gave them much of a glance. Fernando did not get up to serve them. But a woman who might have been his daughter did.
She had been sitting alone at a back table, nursing a whiskey. She sidled behind the bar. She was plump, dark, and not particularly clean. It was obvious from her low-cut blouse and her breasts, bare and quite visible beneath, that she gave the patrons more than just liquor.
"What do you want?" Her English was heavily accented.
"What do you have?" Nick returned wryly.
"Don't ask," Brett said. He winced. "Give us the local rotgut."
Rathe said nothing.
They drank in silence, his brother and brother-in-law attempting to make small conversation but failing dismally. They ordered refills. The woman was pouring them when the sound of the thundering hoofbeats of a lone rider made everyone stiffen and listen. A moment later a dark, very disreputable type came staggering into the saloon, shouting in Spanish.
Fernando rushed to him. At the same time, he saw the three strangers standing at the bar and he went silent. Giving them a wary glance, he let Fernando take him to a corner table.
"What was he saying?" Nick asked Brett, very low.
Brett spoke Spanish fluently; he had been born in Mazatlan. "He said they were attacked and their leader is probably dead. He said the bastard was waiting for them. That's all."
"Is it possible?" Nick asked.
"It must have been that damn Shoz!" Rathe cried in a furious whisper.
"You're really jumping the gun," Brett said. "Relax, be calm, and let me handle this."
"And try to pretend indifference," Nick added.
The three men sipped their drinks while the woman brought the frenzied rider and Fernando a bottle and two glasses. She sat with them and listened until the rider obviously had no more to say. Fernando left him to join the others, the little drama apparently over. The woman got up and left the man nursing his drink alone, returning to the bar.
"More?" she asked.
Brett leaned forward with a smile. His teeth flashed white. The cleft in his chin deepened. His dark eyes were magnetic, alluring. His gaze slid over her breasts. "Only if you'll join me, querida."
Chapter 23
The sun had barely risen when Billy found the gauze bandage, tossed carelessly aside, at the foot of an ancient saguaro about two miles from Casitas.
The night before, Brett had learned that the frenzied rider rode with three other companions, all of them rather dangerous. They had followed a lone traveler into the mountains to rob him. The traveler had ambushed the four bandits, killing and wounding everyone but the man who had returned hysterically to Casitas that night.
The barmaid had been garrulous when prodded flirtatiously by Brett—up to a point. When it came to the identity of the traveler, she refused to say a thing. Brett gained the impression that she knew him, or at least had seen him, from time to time.
There was no proof that this man was Shoz Cooper, and he had appeared to be alone. First thing that morning, they had fanned out in a wide circle, searching for his trail. Now they had found the bandage, and this time, other signs as well.
The horse's small, deep hoofprints were visible, and so was an imprint from a lady's shoe. Most important, a strand of red, curling hair was caught on the bandage's adhesive.
"He's gotten careless," Brett said.
"Or he's tired," Nick returned. "Very tired."
"Or—" Brett's look was sharp "—he's very confident." They exchanged glances and looked at the hot, arid mountains looming before them.
Two hours later, they found the horse, completely tacked, grazing on a rocky hillside, lame. "They're on foot," Rathe shouted, exultant.
The posse spurred their mounts into the mountain country, following a trail showing signs of recent use. And then they found the three dead bandits.
Lucy awoke, wishing she hadn't.
She was aware that every part of her body was stiff and sore, and she was afraid to test it by moving. She was also afraid to test him, so she didn't open her eyes, but feigned sleep.
It gave her a chance to prepare herself for the day con-fronting her, and for the man awaiting her.
The events of the past few days seemed jumbled and distorted, even wildly exaggerated. Like a bizarre nightmare. But it was no dream; the hard floor of the cave testified to her actual presence here, somewhere in the foothills of the Sierra Madres, with a convicted criminal—her captor.
It was strange, but even when she had accused him of lying about his intention to let her go once they made the Rio Grande, she hadn't really meant it. She had been lashing out at him out of hurt more than fear, hurt and disappointment. Today she felt saner, calmer. She was the naive fool for inviting his attentions, and then secretly harbori
ng some hope for affection. She had known who he was from the very beginning—he was a mean, selfish bastard- And from the very beginning she had even suspected his unsavory background, and then it had been confirmed. Yet despite how well she knew him for what he was, despite the fact that he had abducted her and then failed to release her in Casitas last night, when he had given her his word that he would free her when he could, she believed him.
There was also no point in doubting him. It would only feed her hysteria, which probably lurked not too far from the surface, and she didn't need that.
She could not lie around pretending sleep forever, so, reluctantly, Lucy opened her eyes, looking for him. The light was dim and gray in the cave, making her think that it was very, very early. Turning her head, she saw that her only company was the two horses. His blanket was neatly rolled and tied to one of the saddles. Lucy turned her head the other way, and with a start, saw that outside the cave, the light was bright and yellow and harsh. It was not the crack of dawn, far from it.
She sat up. Her back shrieked in protest, and she found she could barely move her neck. It was stiff as a board after her fall into the gorge yesterday. When she straightened her legs, she emitted a groan. Her knees were scabbing and objected to the movement fiercely. Oh, God, she thought. How was she going to survive this day?
How was she going to survive him?
He had overslept, despite his firm intention not to. After making his way out of the cave, Shoz paused in the sunlight, calculating that it would soon be nine. They had lost three or four hours already, and he wasn't pleased.
He carefully scrambled down the rock slope, then jumped off a boulder onto a deer trail. He followed that to the edge of a cliff, and there he raised field glasses to his eyes.
There was no movement south of them, nor east, just the tortured, twisted terrain of the arid mountain landscape. He gazed west, toward Casitas, and made out the sleepy village—nothing unusual there. The mountain they were crossing blocked his view of the north.
Nimbly, easily, he left the cliff, following the scrappy trail west until it veered sharply upward. He left it to cut across a granite rock face. A moment later he stepped between two massive boulders to peer down on the trail below, the trail he and Lucy had taken from Casitas—the one where he had left the three corpses.
He froze. Just for an instant, and then his heart thundered in his ears. Below him the posse milled. Half of the men were on foot, inspecting his handiwork and looking for his sign. He instantly recognized his boss, Derek Bragg, and Lucy's father, Rathe. He watched for only a moment more, and then he slid away and hurried back to the cave.
They had to move, and they had to move fast. He could not rely on the Bragg's being unable to discover where he'd left the trail, but he was sure, if they did find the spot, it wouldn't be within the next hour or so. He was too skilled, he'd eluded too many pursuers. But that didn't cut down on his need for haste.
Every second counted, and while an hour from now, he might be an hour, or more, ahead of the law, right now he was practically sitting in their lap.
And then it flashed through his mind—now he could free her.
Now was the propitious moment to leave Lucy Bragg behind, within shouting distance of her family. There was no excuse not to leave her behind.
Yet his cunning mind found more than one. If he left her behind, ungagged, her shouts would bring the Braggs—and he wouldn't have the head start crucial for his escape. If he left her behind gagged and tied, or didn't tell her her family was so close, she might never find them—and would eventually succumb to the fate this barren, harsh land dealt to green intruders.
And even if he could immediately figure out a way of freeing her and gaining a head start, the law was too close for comfort, closer than they'd ever been before—even closer than that time in Corpus Christi, because now they were practically in his own backyard. How did he dare relinquish his best bargaining chip, just in case he failed to elude his pursuers? Because there was no way he would ever go to prison again.
In his mind he continued to roll the dice, and the same number kept showing up—and Lucy's freedom wasn't it.
He burst into the cave. She was sitting where she'd slept, and she glanced at him. He began tacking their mounts, efficiently, quickly, but without apparent haste. "Get up," he said, keeping his voice dispassionate. "We've overslept and we're leaving."
Lucy got to her feet and a low moan escaped her. He looked at her sharply, pulling a cinch tight, and saw tears in her eyes. She was hobbling. "What's wrong with your feet?"
"I think I have blisters."
They didn't have time for this. Knifelike fear pierced his gut, but he pushed it away. "Later, Lucy."
She jerked her gaze to his. "What is it?"
"We're getting out of here," he said, leading the horses forward. He grabbed her arm and brought her with him.
"Is someone out there?"
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that more bandits had pursued them, but he didn't. Their glances met and held, hers wide and vulnerable, his dark and shadowy. He couldn't lie to her. "You want me to hang, Lucy?" he asked very softly.
Her mouth opened, but the reply wasn't immediate. "No."
"Then let's go."
Lucy bit her lip, her heart pounding madly. They stepped out into the bright, hot sunlight. The law was back there, and she knew it.
She should scream, shout for help, alert them to their presence. So why didn't she?
She stared at Shoz, who was leading the horses along a very narrow, barely discernible animal trail. He was a bastard, but she didn't want him to hang.
He hadn't hurt her; how could she hurt him?
His hands last night, healing her, had been very gentle.
Lucy swept all thoughts away, especially such inappropriate ones, and stumbled after him. She only prayed she wouldn't regret her decision.
"Take off your shoes."
It was an order. They had stopped for the night after another endless day. The first half of it had been spent mostly on foot, climbing with the horses up impossibly steep, narrow, rocky trails, descending down equally impossible slopes squeezing through nearly impassable passes. Then they had cut onto a well-used deer trail, and they had ridden hard and fast, up, always up, higher and higher into the Sierras. Now they had made camp by a stream of mountain run-off, and Lucy sat tiredly by their saddles, unable to move.
She was also unable to protest when, after she did not respond, he took off her shoes for her. "Jesus!"
Lucy held back a whimper, and almost afraid to look, she did. Her feet were a sorry sight, covered with the raw spots of broken blisters and a few new swollen ones, too. She lifted her gaze and found Shoz staring at her, with surprise and compassion.
"You never said a damn word," he said. "Would you have stopped?"
He frowned and helped her to the stream. Lucy let him clean her feet. "No shoes tomorrow," he said afterward, declining to answer. "We'll wrap your feet in cloth. Give me one of your petticoats."
She looked at him.
"I want to wash it. You want to wrap your feet in filthy linen?"
She turned her back on him, blushing even though he'd seen much more than her petticoats, more than any man should ever see. She tugged down one of the slips from beneath her skirt and handed it to him. He left her without a word.
Like the night before, his hands were gentle when he cleaned her feet, and it was incongruous with the hard, roughman he was, Lucy reflected. Was it possible that there was more to Shoz than the mean, mocking facade he presented?
Lucy was uncomfortable with her thoughts, and she found herself staring at him. They hadn't made a fire, but they ate stale bread and tinned meat. He seemed to concentrate very hard on the tin of beef in front of him. Lucy tore her gaze away. But she was like the foolish moth, he the flame. She looked at him again. What desperado cleaned and cared for a woman's blistered feet? It didn't make sense.
"Why didn't you sc
ream, Lucy?" he asked suddenly, his glance sharp and penetrating.
Lucy was taken by surprise. She wanted to look away, but he held her gaze and wouldn't let it go. "I believed you when you said you would let me go once you are safe."
He didn't make a smart, sassy retort. He just stared. "Why didn't you shout for help, Lucy?"
He would not let her off the hook. Obviously if she had screamed, she would be free now, if all had gone in her favor. She fidgeted uncomfortably.
"Why!"
"All right!" she shot back. "You are a mean bastard, but you don't deserve to die! You may be a horse thief, but I'm sure you're not a murderer." She instantly thought about the bandits he had chased away last night—or killed. But that had been self-defense.
"I'm not a murderer," he said, his gaze unwavering. "I'm also not a damn horse thief."
Lucy stared down at her food. He still insisted that he was innocent, but she knew positively what she had seen. She didn't want to talk about it; it was too upsetting.
He made a sound of disgust and got to his feet. He disappeared into the night. Lucy was left with a sky full of stars and a raw ache in her heart.
Chapter 24
Death Valley.
It was dry and hot deep in the bowels of the constricted valley. They had spent the last two days crossing an arid desert mountain range. The trails they had followed had been narrow and rocky and very dangerous, ascending steep inclines, again and again. At times they had attained dizzying heights. Too often, one slip would be anyone's last, into deep, bottomless gorges that snaked alongside them, granite cliffs soaring over them on the other side. The morning of their third day began their descent. It had taken hours, and it had been equally treacherous, slippery, and rocky. The going was dusty and got worse as the altitude lessened. It had been hot up in the mountains when they were trapped between giant cliffs that blocked any breeze and sucked in the heat, but at other times, on an open mountainside, it had been warm and even pleasant. Now it was hot, hotter than Texas, hotter than anywhere Lucy had ever been.
