“He very sorry,” the woman offered. Smallpox scars marred her otherwise attractive features. “He thought you very bad hombre, ride with outlaw.”
“Outlaw?” Alarm coursed through Quinn’s limbs. “You’ve seen outlaws lately?”
The last rays of the dying sun touched her eyes with flame. “Si, señor. We try to make a rancho, but these bad men, they keep coming. They drive away our cattle, all our horses but this one. We go before they kill us, too.”
“My name is Quinn Ryan. I’m the sheriff of Copper Ridge. Who are they? It’s important that I know so I can stop them.”
To her credit, she didn’t laugh, though she looked doubtful. At last she shrugged, as if she’d decided no harm could come of naming the outlaw to an unarmed, unhorsed man who didn’t even have a star to support the claim that he upheld the law.
“I have heard men call him Hamby,” she said. “I call him el diablo. The devil, in your words.”
“That he is. You’re wise to take your family where it’s safer,” Quinn said. “You’ve seen him recently?”
“This very morning. He came, and the Apache with him held a knife up to my son so we would talk.”
“What did he want from you?”
“To know about a woman, a curandera of the canyon. An American, like you.”
“Anna . . .” Quinn groaned, feeling the fine hair rise behind his neck. He’d been so quick to dismiss Anna’s tale two weeks before. It sounded as if she’d been right after all. And now, when she returned to her cabin, Hamby would be there . . . waiting for her. Terror gripped Quinn’s chest with ice-cold talons. Sweet Jesus, he had sent her home to die.
He glanced once more at the western sky, as if his need might coax the sun aloft. But even if the light were with him, he was many hours away. Many hours from Anna, who might be dead already.
If she were lucky . . . He closed his eyes against the lurid flashes of what Hamby and his men might do to her if she yet lived. With sickening detail, he recalled the way that Hamby swung those little scalps and laughed. El diablo, this woman had called him, but Quinn suspected his atrocities would make Old Scratch blush with shame.
The woman grasped his arm. “You know Señorita Anna?”
Quinn nodded, too miserable to waste words on an answer.
“She has helped us many times.” Tears rolled down her pockmarked cheeks. “We had no wish to cause the curandera harm, but Juan . . . they would have killed our son. You would help her if you could?”
“I — I would give my soul to help her,” Quinn said, his voice rough with regret, for he feared that as with his family, he would be too late.
The woman turned and spoke in Spanish with her husband. They seemed to argue, but finally, they appeared to come to some agreement. The man handed the gray gelding’s reins to Quinn. He unfastened several packs behind the saddle and pulled them to the ground.
“You take this horse and go to find the señorita. And you tell her la familia de Javier Cortéz says many prayers for her.”
“Thank you.” Quinn swung into the saddle. “I will tell her.”
And without another word, he galloped off into the deepening gloom.
* * *
Anna leaned close to the mare’s neck to duck beneath low-hanging branches. She knew this canyon, knew the places where a horse would slide in loose rock, where phantom pathways ended in impenetrable thorns or worse yet, precipitous drops. Her pursuers would have to be more cautious unless they could keep her in clear sight, or unless they had an expert tracker in their midst.
Swallowing back her terror, she checked the horse’s frantic pace, then drew the big mare to a halt. Already, the shadows had grown long. Soon the light would weaken and then fade out altogether, leaving her alone and without shelter in the dark.
With a shudder at the thought, Anna swept a lock of loose hair behind an ear to listen. Beyond the blowing of her tired mount, she heard the sharp caw of a raven. She listened closer still and heard the gentle sweep of a light breeze among the trees and rocks, the distant voice of melting water in the creek. And then a clattering of hooves on rocks. The hoof-strikes of the horses of the men who followed her.
In the canyon, it was difficult to gauge distance and direction. Sounds bounced between the red walls and echoed in the hollows, each sharp with the threat of violence. Flashes of old terror rose once more, punctuated by the chords of mangled song.
No! Anna nearly screamed the word aloud to stop the macabre parade of memories. She could ill-afford to let them paralyze her once again. Already, she’d let them cost her the advantage of her rifle. Already they had cost her what might be her only chance to put Ned Hamby in the ground.
And surely there was no one who more deserved to die. Not after what he’d done to her. Not with what he meant to do right now.
Her panic once again receded as she planned what she would do. If she kept heading north, she’d come to a little draw with an entrance almost completely hidden behind an outcrop of red rock. Unless the outlaws knew the canyon intimately, they’d never dream the spot existed. She could hide there, then climb up onto the cliffs above on foot. From that vantage, she would be able to overlook a large portion of the canyon. If luck were with her, she’d be able to see if Hamby and his men had left. When she thought it was safe, she could try to catch up with Quinn to warn him Hamby’s men were close and to return his horse. And then the two of them could find a way to drive the outlaws from her home.
Her plan had one disadvantage she could think of. If Hamby’s men, by some chance, discovered where she’d gone, all they’d have to do is cut off the narrow entrance to entrap her there. Although it seemed unlikely, the thought made her scalp prickle.
All things considered, the little draw seemed a better idea than going after Quinn right away. If she did that and were followed, she’d be leading the outlaws straight to him as well. And now neither of them had a gun.
Sangre de Cristo, she wished she were miles away from here. Yet even as the thought coursed through her, terror gripped her fiercely. For all its loneliness, the canyon sheltered memories, memories and a presence she was not yet ready to give up. How could she leave her home to outlaws?
Not forever, she swore to herself. Not even for long. Just long enough to warn Quinn. They she’d return and somehow reclaim the place where a part of her lay buried, the only place where she could feel at ease.
Anna nudged the mare’s ribs with her heels and rode toward where the draw lay. The sooner she reached it, the sooner she could learn exactly where the outlaw and his men were now.
* * *
Lucy sputtered and coughed with the water that was poured over her face.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Cameron shouted at Elena. “It’s her wedding day, and you’ve made her look like a drowned rat.”
Wedding day. Lucy coughed again. So it had been neither dream nor nightmare. It had happened — was still happening — right now.
“Are — are we —?”
Judge Clancy loomed above her, his jowly face smiling with the paternal amusement one reserved for a small child. “Yes, my dear. The two of you are married, but don’t worry. You’re not the first young bride to be overcome by happiness.”
“She looks sick with fear to me,” Elena offered, still brandishing the pitcher she had poured onto her rival’s face.
Lucy wondered if it yet held water enough to drown a woman. If she felt stronger, she’d be tempted to hold down the housekeeper’s head to see.
She shoved her sodden curls out of her eyes.
Miss Rathbone tugged her arm. “She does look pale. Let’s take her to her room so I can loosen her corset.”
Cameron lifted his new wife to her feet by one arm, while Miss Rathbone helped support the other.
Elena rushed toward the corridor where the two Eastern women had been staying.
“I will help you,” she insisted.
“No!” both Miss Rathbone and Lucy said at once.
&
nbsp; Lucy felt a rush of blood heat her face and neck. The last person she would want to learn her secret was Elena, but both men in the room had surely heard how vehemently she and her companion wished to keep the housekeeper from helping with her underthings. She couldn’t bear to look at either of themand most especially to look at that concubine who called herself a maid to see how they’d reacted to the outburst. So she kept her gaze cast low, until she realized that was exactly what a woman shamed by guilt would do.
But not a Worthington. Never a Worthington, she told herself. A Worthington must hold her head high, no matter what the circumstances. Isn’t that what her father had done last August when those self-righteous reporters had questioned him? Although they’d had what appeared to be solid evidence, her father had blustered his way past the allegations. Recalling the valuable lessons he had taught her, she favored Elena with the haughtiest glare that she could muster.
It must have been effective, for the smug expression shriveled on the woman’s face.
“What I meant to say,” Lucy said, her voice tight with condescension, “was that your services in anyregard will no longer be required in this house.”
Her pronouncement had exactly the effect that she desired. Both Elena and Cameron gaped and paled. Lucy would have bet her last gold eagle any suspicions they might have had about her had evaporated with their bewilderment.
While she had both off-stride, she pressed her advantage. “I’m certain my new husband will be happy to give you a glowing letter of recommendation. But since my mother passed away some years ago, I’ve been used to hiring my own household staff.”
She glanced quickly at Miss Rathbone, as if daring her to dispute the notion. In reality, her father had insisted on handling those details himself.
Miss Rathbone surprised her with a puckered smile. Clearly, she found Lucy’s verbal sleight of hand amusing.
“Come along, Mrs. Cameron,” the older woman said with more cheer than Lucy had heard in months. “I’m certain you can walk now. Let me help you with that corset.”
Lucy nodded once in answer and allowed Miss Rathbone to lead her. Before they left the parlor, Lucy spared her husband one last glance. And found his gaze locked with Elena’s, his mouth gaping like that of a new-caught fish.
Turning her back on the pair, Lucy could not suppress a smile. Today she might have taken a new name, but the appellation did nothing to change what she was at her core, what she would be forever.
A Worthington, and with sufficient arrogance, a Worthington need apologize for nothing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Anna hid the horse carefully behind a shroud of rock and juniper, then tied the animal so it could graze on the sparse brown winter grass. God knew she might need to ride fast when she next mounted, and she would need the mare to be in the best shape possible.
Afterward, Anna began to climb. Above her, a handful of the brightest stars already glowed against a sky bruised by the nightfall. To the west, the last stains of scarlet faded into oblivion. The full disk of the moon offered thin illumination, splashing eerie shadows in the lee of every rock.
She hesitated and leaned against a cooling boulder. Climbing now was a fool’s errand. Even in the best light, the Indian trail was nearly undetectable. In the dimness, she might easily step off a steep slope or twist an ankle on loose gravel. Any injury in this place could easily prove fatal. And even when she reached the top, she would never see distant riders in the canyon.
Yet after a brief rest, she pressed on as quickly as she could safely move. If she reached the top, there were some things that the darkness could not hide. The light from a campfire. Or flames rising from her cabin, if they burned it, or perhaps a plume of smoke to tell her they were staying there instead.
She shuddered with revulsion at that last thought. Somehow, she’d rather Hamby and his men destroy her things than use them. She thought about the silken lock of hair inside the chest drawer, bereft even of the dubious protection of a book’s thin pages. She thought with sudden nausea of Hamby touching it.
It was all Anna had left of Rosalinda, that and the tiny grave that lay close to the cabin. Her anger smoldered, then burst into full flame. How could she leave that soul-less bastard at her cabin? Even if he left it standing, the place would be defiled in her mind.
Quivering with emotion, she paused to rub her shoulder where he’d grabbed it. The memory of his threat hissed in her ear.
You got plenty to be scared of . . . little bitch.
A powerful spasm gripped her stomach, and she bent to vomit. Her legs shook so that they nearly buckled at the knees.
“I can’t . . . I can’t,” she whispered without knowing what it was she couldn’t do. Face the threat of Hamby? Climb up to these steep cliffs in the dark?
She spat and wiped her mouth, then thought of the ancient people who’d once dwelt here. They had left scattered caves and shards of pottery all around these canyon walls. Once, she’d found bits of bone carved into what looked like game pieces. Evidence that they had raised their offspring here as well. She could almost hear those long-dead children, laughing at her fears, laughing as they scurried nimbly up these slopes.
Below her, she heard a clattering of loose rock. Her knees buckled once more. Had they found her here so quickly? She tasted bile once again and crouched low behind a gnarled piñon tree. Her best chance lay in stillness, like a fawn left by its mother for the night. In this poor light, they’d never see her if she didn’t move. Besides, she wasn’t certain she could make her legs work. Once again, raw fear had crippled her.
Small stones rattled their way into the lower canyon, and she heard something moving through the brush downhill from her. Something quickly moving closer. Her own blood whooshed in her ears; a band of pulsing pressure made her head ache.
“Dios mio,” she breathed. My God. This time, the two words were more a desperate prayer than exclamation.
As if in answer, something whined. Almost before she recognized the familiar sound, a bark rose, sharp and joyful.
“Notion!” she called back.
Within moments, the big dog found her. In his enthusiasm, he knocked her on her seat.
“I thought they’d killed you, fellow,” she crooned, stroking his thick fur. “I thought they’d —”
The dog yelped in pain. Anna raised her hand and peered down at the sticky, dark stain. Blood. A bullet must have grazed him, or perhaps a knife.
“Poor boy,” she said. But quickly a new fear overwhelmed her. For in the morning with the sun, Notion’s blood would lead Ned Hamby and his gang right here. Or maybe, if the outlaws had followed the dog’s progress, they already waited down below.
And if they did, there would be no getting out of here alive.
* * *
“Come on with me, Ginger. I reckon ol’ Ned’ll pay dear for your return. Leastways, he will if he ain’t too dog-chawed.”
Black Eagle led the chestnut mare from the stand of juniper where the woman he was hunting had concealed it. Hidden as it was behind an elk-sized boulder, he might have ridden by it if not for its neighed greeting to his mount.
He’d wondered how the hell that woman had disappeared so fast. He’d been almost on her heels when she ran off. Hiding here would have been a good idea, if that dog of hers hadn’t painted him a map with its own blood. Clearly, she hadn’t lost her head the way most women would have. She would have made a good Apache, or so he would guess.
If he were a full-blood, he would climb that outcropping tonight, then cut like a blade through shadow and drag her from wherever she’d holed up. And afterward, he’d slice through her as well.
After he killed her, he meant to take the head to Cameron, to dump it on the judge’s desk and demand the whole reward. Not just the portion that Hamby’d promised either, but what Black Eagle thought was fair. And if Judge Cameron didn’t feel like dealing with an Apache whelp, Black Eagle’d start talking — to anyone who’d listen. He could damned sur
e spin out enough details to fix the judge’s flint.
Black Eagle cocked his head and listened to the dog’s bark from somewhere in the dark mass of rocks above. He’d tracked the mongrel here, following the damp trail of its blood from Hamby’s desperate shot. Black Eagle grinned, thinking about the way the dog had tangled with old Ned. No telling which of the two bled more.
He wondered if Hop had gone back to the cabin to help Hamby bind his wounds. More than likely, Hop had returned to loot the place while Hamby was distracted and Black Eagle was still out hunting for their prey.
Probably, the both of them thought Black Eagle would play the dutiful lackey, truss up the bitch and bring her back to share. He’d take his turn last, of course, ‘cause Ned might have took to scalping, but he was still squeamish about pokin’ any woman after a half-breed. Or maybe it wasn’t the pokin’ bothered Ned, but the way Black Eagle liked to cut his women while he had them, the way he liked to hear them scream.
He remembered last time, with that skinny squaw, how he’d smeared himself in war paint made of her bright blood. He shuddered and grew hard with the thought of coating his face with this woman’s still-hot blood, of having her all to himself.
Quivering with anticipation, he considered the horse’s presence and the single dog bark he had heard. The mongrel must have found its owner. He thought again of climbing up to find the woman, but the darkness and the fierce animal made it too dangerous. Too dangerous for a man with only half a hunter’s soul.
As he staked the mare beside his worn-out gelding, Black Eagle once more cursed the white blood flowing in his veins. He thought back on his mother, the rabbit woman with her bulging, frightened eyes. He thought, too, of how Grandpa blamed him for what had happened to her.
“You goddamn little bastard,” the old man swore at him, pulling off his thick leather belt, “We’ll see if I can beat the savage out of you this time.”
Canyon Song Page 13
