Leather and Lace

by DiAnn Mills

  “What do you think?” She swallowed her staggering emotions. “Pick them off one by one? Let them know we’re ready and have it out now before we collapse from lack of sleep or water?” She brushed back a loose strand of hair from her face. “I want to face them now. I’m tired, too tired to think or reason. You have a chance to shoot Jenkins and still get out of here alive. I’ll hold them off.”

  “I’m here for whatever happens. I’m not leaving you to that animal.”

  Who was this man? “A mule has more sense than you do. Stick with me, and you’ll end up dead. Save the heroics. What happened to your plan?”

  “We’ll think of something,” Morgan said. “We’ve come too far to risk getting killed because they think they have us.”

  “And they don’t?”

  “Not yet.” He studied the terrain. “Where’s your spunk, girl? I thought you had more fight in you than this.” He took a passing glance at their horses. “You know, I’d gamble on them thinking we’d wait till dark to sneak out of here.”

  She paced across the dirt floor of the cave and watched a lizard scamper up the wall. “You’re talking hours away. Jenkins could get very impatient by then.”

  “True. What do you say we let them get their horses unsaddled and make a run for it?”

  What did they have to lose? “So you’re going to get him when we ride out?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve got friends in Vernal. We could hide out a few days.”

  “I still know a few folks there,” he said. “Unless you have a better idea.”

  She shook her head. “Running is part of my life, and as long as someone is after me, I’ll keep running.”

  Staring up at the rock ledge masking the cave’s opening, she felt a renewal of energy. Jenkins had two guards posted at opposite ends of the riverbank, with Tim seated adjacent to the cave. The outlaws’ horses glistened with sweat.

  “We’re outnumbered, but their horses are spent. I think we can outrun them.” Morgan’s jaw tightened. He reached for her rifle along with the Colt and derringer. “This isn’t the way I planned to return these.”

  “And it’s not the way I wanted them back, either.” She slipped the revolver into her gun belt, dropped the derringer into her coat pocket, and tightened her fingers around the stock barrel of the rifle. The familiarity did little to boost her confidence.

  Staring at the water’s edge, she recalled similar situations and remembered the anxious gut fear. But she’d always been in Jenkins’s company, not against him.

  The outlaws relaxed by the riverbank. Some reached for a chaw of tobacco and a bottle of whiskey. Some filled their canteens with water. From the sordid laughter, she knew which ones bragged about their reputations. Only Jenkins and the guards held their weapons in hand.

  “We need some wood,” Jenkins shouted.

  “What for?”

  “Burn out Casey and Morgan.” He pointed to the cave.

  “You—” Casey whipped her attention to Morgan.

  “He knows I’m trailing him. So does your brother.”

  “How’s come I never heard of you?”

  “Maybe Jenkins doesn’t tell his woman everything.”

  She wanted to spit on him.

  Jenkins stepped behind two of the men.

  “I see you’re hiding from me,” Morgan called out.

  “And have you pick me off?” Jenkins laughed. “Can’t believe my luck. Got you both.”

  “That’s what you think,” Morgan said.

  Jenkins laughed again. “Gonna get mighty hot in there.”

  Morgan swung his attention her way. “Are you ready?”

  Casey clenched her fists to dispel the anger and fear snaking up her spine. “Sure. Don’t have much choice.”

  “Only the hand of God can help us now.”

  “He may help you, but I haven’t done anything good to get His attention.”

  “God doesn’t help us because we deserve it.”

  She startled. “What are you, a preacher?”

  “Far from it. I just know who’s in control.”

  Moments later, the two stepped from the cave and swung up onto their saddles. Two black-billed magpies flew from a tree above them as if they understood the turmoil threatening to explode. A desire to live raced through her veins as desperate as the escape from the overhanging rock to open ground. I will not become like them. How many times had she told herself that very thing over the years? She spurred her horse on behind Morgan’s mare and shut out all thoughts but the flight to freedom.

  Instantly, Jenkins’s guards were alerted. Rifle fire split the air. Bullets whizzed past them. One whistled near her ear. Tim, how can you be a part of this? The shouts and curses of excited men filled the air. She heard Morgan’s rifle and wondered where the bullet landed.

  All too soon, the pounding of horse hooves broke the peacefulness of the afternoon. It sounded like drums signaling out a war cry. Morgan looked back, then spurred his mare faster down the riverbank. Without hesitation, Casey raced behind. Instinct took over her actions and buried her fear. From the shouts behind them, many of the men pressed closer than safety allowed. She leaned against Stoney’s neck and clung to the hope of the gang’s horses tiring first.

  Morgan’s horse climbed up a path of rock. He seemed to know exactly where it led. The thought bothered her, but she didn’t have time to contemplate his knowledge except to recall that he’d once lived in these parts. The path wound around rock as perilous as the icy trail from the night before.

  The steep ascent came to a sharp fork. Morgan stopped for a moment and took another look behind them. “Casey, you take the right, and I’ll wind up to the left.” He pointed to a high ridge on her side. “I’ll meet you there. Listen for my rifle to signal them coming. With both of us firing from opposite directions, it should throw them long enough for us to get an edge.”

  “Did you get Jenkins?”

  “Not sure.”

  She nodded and dug her heels into the horse’s sides. What kind of man risked his life for a female outlaw—unless money ruled his good sense?

  Her gelding picked its way to higher ground. She willed herself to stay calm, to collect her thoughts, and to stay alert.

  Sometime during the last few hours, she’d begun to depend upon Morgan. She couldn’t pinpoint when, but time would tell if she paid for it with her life. Could she be so tired that exhaustion had altered her good judgment?

  With death nipping at her heels, Casey questioned if God really existed. Morgan certainly seemed to know more about the subject than she did. Her mother had trusted in God, and she died in peace. Many a time, Casey had tended to Jenkins’s men when they lay dying. They became twisted, ugly distortions of men, clinging to life and afraid of the unknown. She didn’t want to end up like that.

  Morgan . . . She was afraid to trust him and afraid not to. He waved his rifle, then fired, and Casey returned the signal. Jenkins ascended the rocky path and neared the fork. Morgan hadn’t got him. She tried to catch a glimpse of Tim’s face, but his wide-brimmed hat shielded his face. She didn’t want him dead, but she feared he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her.

  Morgan squeezed another shot, and it bounced off rock, causing Jenkins’s horse to startle. The animal screamed in protest, then reared. The outlaw fell and rolled into a crevice. Like a snake. She raised her rifle and fired, but he disappeared in the shadows. The other men scattered as best they could in view of the narrow path. All Casey could do was fire into the lower rock walls. The outlaws rapidly returned their own fire, but she knew they could only speculate where she and Morgan were located.

  “Move back.” Tim’s voice echoed to the men.

  Casey held her breath. Jenkins must be hurt or better yet dead. She calculated how long before any of them headed up the steep path again on both sides of the fork.

  Morgan motioned for her to climb higher. She urged her horse up to the meeting ground. As she guessed, the narrow trail wound around t
o a small rock clearing. Before she had a moment to consider their next move, a rifle shot pierced the air, then another. Morgan rode into the clearing slumped over his horse and fell. Crimson rivers oozed from his thigh and chest. One of the men had gotten to him before he reached the clearing.

  Casey raced to Morgan’s still body and jumped from her gelding. She didn’t know where the few tears she shed came from. She’d seen enough hole-filled men. But the rare display of emotion slipped over her cheeks—blinding, stinging tears full of regret. She laid her ear against his chest and ignored the blood staining her face and hands. A faint heartbeat gave her hope. A weak moan escaped his lips. For certain, he barely held on to life. Her gaze swept around the clearing. No one. Where did the shots come from?

  She yanked out an old shirt and a bottle of Tim’s whiskey from her saddlebag. She’d taken it one night when he was mean drunk, never expecting she’d find a purpose for it.

  Casey dropped to her knees beside Morgan and carefully opened his shirt. Bits of cloth lay embedded in the open flesh, and she carefully picked them out. The hole in his upper chest lay dangerously close to his heart, and the bullet had sunk deep. Tearing her old shirt into strips, she poured whiskey over the largest piece. She dabbed at the wound with the wet cloth and gasped at the profuse bleeding. All the while, she glanced about, looking for Jenkins and his men to overtake them.

  Why couldn’t you have been more careful? Her hands trembled as she worked. You shouldn’t have tangled with the likes of me. No matter what the reason. She glanced at Stoney. This was her chance to get away. Morgan wasn’t worth trying to figure out, and he lay dying.

  But she’d decided weeks ago to live a decent life. Leaving him might have been what the old Casey would do.

  She steadied herself, then hastily mixed a mud paste of dirt and whiskey and applied it to Morgan’s chest. Ofttimes it stopped the bleeding.

  “I couldn’t have been worth this much trouble,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you listen to me in the cave? I was the bait, remember?”

  His face grayed—a frightening indication of death. His breathing grew shallow, then faded to nothing. Again she placed her ear near his heart. A faint sound of life.

  The echo of hoofbeats startled her. Her gaze darted from Morgan to the area around them for signs of Jenkins. She refused to leave the injured man, but helplessness gripped her just the same. Snatching up her rife, she prepared for the worst.

  Chapter 4

  “Casey!”

  She held her breath and watched Tim ride up beside her. His hardened life had chiseled so many lines in his face. The once-boyish features were now rigid and drawn.

  “Did you think you could really get away?” He swung his leg over the saddle and took long strides toward her. His pale blue eyes blazed, and his jaw tightened. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hit her. He snatched her rifle from her hands.

  “Tim, help me.” She swallowed hard. He hated whining. “He’s dying.”

  “I’ve already done more than you deserve.” He grabbed her arm, but she jerked free. “And you owe me for all this trouble.”

  “Please.” Heat flooded her face.

  “Don’t beg, ’cause I ain’t listening.”

  Casey hated what the outlaw life had done to them. “I’m not begging. I’m asking for help.”

  He cursed. “I ain’t helping you with nothin’. All you’ve ever done is cause me trouble since the day I lit out on my own and you followed.”

  She reached deep within her to find strength. “Then don’t tell Jenkins where I am. Let me get out of your life for good.”

  “Jenkins ain’t finding nobody. His leg’s got a hole in it and broke. But I’m bringing you back.” He stepped forward, and she moved just beyond his reach. “You’re his woman whether you like it or not.”

  “Let me get away from all this. You won’t ever have to deal with me again. Just turn around and ride away.”

  “Hey, Tim,” a familiar voice echoed from the trail below. “Have you found ’em?”

  She lifted her chin and captured his gaze.

  “Tim,” the man shouted again. “You got Casey and that feller she’s with?”

  He narrowed his eyes. Every part of him seethed with loathing. Moments ticked by. “No need. The two are gone.” He tossed her rifle at her feet. Without a word, he mounted his horse and headed back down the rocky path.

  Casey unclenched her fists, unaware her fingertips had drawn blood from her palms. She took a deep breath and turned her attention to Morgan. The sight of torn flesh didn’t cause her to cringe. She’d grown used to it from mending the knife wounds and bullet holes of Jenkins’s men.

  “I’ve seen worse,” she whispered. Who was she trying to convince? Death had a stranglehold on the man.

  She wrapped pieces of her shirt around his chest while blood dripped onto the dirt and rock beneath him. She’d learned about herbs and remedies from Franco, a Mexican who used to ride with Jenkins. He’d taught her well, even the language. Franco wanted her to leave the gang and go with him to Mexico, but Jenkins got wind of it and shot him. No matter. She didn’t have any of those remedies with her now.

  Morgan wouldn’t live long without help. She’d risked this much, and she refused to let him die.

  Once, he opened his eyes, and she saw a flicker of recognition. But a moan escaped his lips, and he drifted back into unconsciousness. Already the makeshift bandage seeped blood.

  While Casey treated Morgan’s leg, she neither heard a sound nor saw any movement from his limp form. The ashen color of his skin and his uneven breathing filled her with dread. What if the bullet had punctured his lung? No blood spilled from his mouth and nose. Good. Maybe there was hope.

  They couldn’t stay in the clearing.

  She could only imagine the outlaw leader’s rage when he learned of their escape. He wouldn’t waste any time sending men after them or raising the reward. She’d caused Jenkins a lot of grief, and now he nursed a bullet wound and a broken leg. His misfortune might slow him down long enough for them to escape—if Morgan lived. But what about the others? They were a greedy lot and eager to land a stake in Jenkins’s money.

  Casey shuddered. With Jenkins laid up, that left Tim to lead the gang. How long would her brother stall them? She didn’t want to think of another meeting with him. He’d change his mind for sure.

  Stoney nuzzled up against her and rubbed his soft nose against her hand. She patted him gently. Strange how the horse’s touch calmed her nerves.

  She fretted over how to get Morgan to Vernal. Her gaze swung from the unconscious figure to his horse. She had no choice but to build a travois. Glancing about, she saw several broken limbs left from the heavy winter snows. It had to be enough, for she couldn’t risk dragging up pieces of wood from below. Using Morgan’s rope, she tied together a wooden frame between two trailing poles, then fixed his blanket on top. Tugging and pulling, she positioned the injured man onto the travois, certain she’d killed him in the process. At least in his current state, he couldn’t feel the pain. She covered him with her blanket and used her rope to tie him securely.

  They had miles to cover, and she didn’t want to think about Morgan dying along the way. When they reached Vernal, Doc would tend to him. He boasted of a lucrative practice in mending the bullet-and knife-ravaged bodies of many men—good and bad.

  Unfortunately, Jenkins also needed Doc to yank out a bullet and set his broken leg, and she sure didn’t need the outlaws getting there first. The thought made her weak, dizzy.

  *****

  White-hot pain seared every inch of Morgan’s body, as though he’d been branded and a fiery poker prodded at his open wounds. His mind swam in a haze that floated in and out. At first he fought the unconsciousness, but when his mind numbed, he didn’t hurt. Didn’t feel like screaming. Jenkins had succeeded in killing him. The outlaw had won. Only a breath of time stood between Morgan and God. He groaned. Whatever dragged him along had hit something. More torture?
He tried to focus on what he could remember. The unseen outlaw . . . the anguish tearing through his body. His mind cleared slightly, long enough for the torture to wield its sword into his chest and leg.

  Oh God, release me from this pain. Take me to You.

  Casey O’Hare. He hadn’t cared what happened to her until he saw her courage in the face of death. All he wanted was a way to trap Jenkins. He’d banked on the outlaw agreeing to an exchange for her and stepping out in the open. The four-year search would finally be over, but the haunting in his soul told him he still wouldn’t rest. Hate had driven him for so long that he wasn’t sure he wanted the pursuit to end. He’d survived on revenge. Without it, he had no reason to go on.

  What happened instead staggered him. They’d been trapped, and when she offered to stay behind, he realized he couldn’t send a woman to her death—not even an outlaw. How well he understood the price she’d pay for leaving Jenkins. No woman deserved his torture. Still, a nagging question needled him. Why had she stayed seven years with an outlaw gang?

  Morgan struggled to talk. He had to warn her . . . persuade her to leave him behind before one of the Jenkins gang caught up with them . . . pray for her. He could do that. She needed help to start her life over. The kind of help only God could give.

  Was she guilty of everything he’d read and heard? Didn’t matter now. He was heading to his Maker. Help her, I beg of You.

  Blackness swirled in his mind, and he faded into blissful darkness.

  *****

  The trail to Vernal led straight south through dry canyons where nary a soul existed, not an easy path to venture with a badly wounded man. Time played an important part in whatever happened. If only she had medicinal herbs. She’d cleaned Morgan’s torn flesh with whiskey, then bound the wounds tight. Nothing more she could do.

  A moan from Morgan caused her to stop and check on him.

  “Don’t you dare die on me.” Casey wanted to shake him. “You’re a strong man. You can make it.”

  In a distant but not forgotten corner of her mind, she recalled the frail figure of her mother praying over Tim’s fevered young body. He’d gotten pneumonia in the wet and cold while looking for their drunken pa. Ma had kneeled beside him for hours, and Tim had recovered.