by Tess LeSue
Like hell she would. She wasn’t planning on being with him for more than another couple of hours. She’d managed to slip the laudanum into the second jug of moonshine they’d popped the cork on. The lot of them were starting to nod now. Voss was heavy eyed and slurring. He was stretched out on his back, blinking long, slow blinks, his expression slackening.
Ava helped herself to a second helping of the rabbit and a hunk of corn bread. She felt easier now they were all falling quiet. The ribald talk and rowdiness over dinner had been a chore to listen to. She was always tense around large groups of men anyway. They were unpredictable at best, and downright life-threatening at worst.
The low murmurs faded away, and soon all she could hear was the sound of her own chewing. This had been easier than she had anticipated. The moonshine had such a pungent fragrance (she bet it had tasted even worse than it smelled) that none of them had suspected that it had been spiked. They’d glugged down the laudanum happily enough, and slipped into their opium dreams without so much as a single protest.
The campfire crackled and popped, the flames leaping at the stars, which were flickering to life above the glow of the fire. She sighed as she mopped up the rabbit juices with the last of the bread. She was in for a long night of riding. She didn’t doubt Voss would be on her tail the minute his head cleared, so she’d have to get moving. He had a good night’s sleep ahead though, full of some very vivid dreams. It should give her enough of a head start. . . .
She considered stealing his horse, but horse theft was a hanging offense. Whereas rescuing one’s self from kidnapping wasn’t a crime. As far as she knew. She also resisted giving Voss a hefty kick as she passed him. Only because she didn’t want to wake him.
She did borrow his canteen. Borrowing wasn’t a crime, was it? She didn’t fancy his hardtack though, so she helped herself to some of the cowboys’ supplies. They had an awful lot of jerky. And how was anyone going to prove she’d taken it? She would have eaten it by the time anyone found her. It was the perfect crime.
“C’mon, Freckles, looks like it’s just you and me now.” Ava swung into the saddle. She gazed down at the dreaming outlaws. She envied them their rest. She didn’t think she’d be sleeping for the foreseeable future—she’d be too busy looking over her shoulder to see if Voss was chasing her down.
Freckles plodded off into the darkness. She wasn’t a quick horse, but she was a steady one. She picked her way carefully over the uneven ground, sensibly avoiding the dark humps of the chaparral and the deeply pooled shadows that suggested potholes. Ava gave her a scratch behind the ear. She was developing an affection for the old girl.
“If you could just go a little faster,” Ava suggested, “we’d get along even better.”
Freckles whickered but didn’t quicken her pace, not a jot.
Ava glanced back over her shoulder. The campfire was still visible as a red-gold shimmer in the distance. Maybe she should have risked the hanging and stolen Voss’s horse. . . .
* * *
• • •
SHE GOT LOST almost immediately and ran out of water by the end of the first day. She also found that jerky gave her a horrid stomachache when there was no water to wash it down with. After two days she was burning up with heat stroke and dehydration. She had no idea how she’d kept ahead of Voss for that long. She could surmise only that the laudanum had knocked him out for longer than she’d expected. It was possible she’d even killed him. . . . After the water had run out and her brains had started to cook in her head in the beating summer heat, she had waking nightmares that she’d killed the whole lot of them. They’d tumbled off into their opium haze and never climbed back out. . . . Forget hanging for horse theft, she’d be up for mass murder. . . .
But then, she thought philosophically, she was about to die of thirst in the desert, so who the hell cared about hanging? If they offered her a glass of water first, she might even climb up on the scaffold of her own free will.
Those were the thoughts she was having when she came upon the naked Apache. The blind, naked, stubborn-as-all-hell Apache. The one who spoke like a lawyer and hounded her until she roped him up and let him sit in front of her on Freckles. Poor Freckles, who now plodded along even slower under their combined weight.
How was her luck? She felt buried under the weight of her misfortune. LeFoy’s stupid Hunt; Voss kidnapping her; Deathrider being captured by Ortiz before she could get anywhere near him; getting lost in the desert; and now getting lumped with a dying Apache! Curse her dumb conscience. It was sheer madness to drag a dying warrior with her.
She’d thought she was pretty wrecked when she found him, but he put her to shame. He’d seemed lively enough when she found him, but that faded mighty fast once they were traveling. He was near delirious from thirst and hunger, and when he wasn’t being an irksome lawyer, he was prone to dizziness. A few times he almost slid right off the horse. Ava rapped him sharply on the back of the head.
“Apache!” she snapped. “If you fall off, you’ll break a leg. And I’ll be damned if I’m nursing you out here.”
“I have a name,” he mumbled. He was barely conscious by then.
“I don’t care,” she reminded him. She tried to hide her concern behind a sharp tongue. She didn’t like the look of the way he held his head; it was heavy on his neck, his chin bouncing along on his chest. Riding behind him, she had a good view of his bruises, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if he was sporting a broken rib or two. His skin was peeling from severe sunburn as well; the burns were bad enough that he was suffering from chills, bone-shuddering shivers that made his teeth clack together. Although maybe that was caused by severe dehydration.
And that was just the fresh stuff. He had some terrifyingly serious old scars too; nets of silver cobwebbed his back, and there were slashes that were still recent enough to be angry red, not to mention the chips out of his flesh, which she assumed were old bullet holes.
“You sure you’re not a ghost?” she asked as she grabbed hold of him the next time he keeled sideways. “’Cause you look like you’ve been killed at least a dozen times over.” She struggled to keep him upright. In the end she had to wrap both arms hard around him and grip his legs with her thighs to keep him steady. He moaned in pain as she squeezed his sore spots.
“Don’t you go getting any ideas,” she told him snappishly, but she couldn’t quite keep the worry from her voice. “This isn’t any kind of come-on. This is just pure Christian charity.”
She spread her hands flat against his chest to hold him back against her. She could feel the heat of his skin. He was sure running some soaring fever. She could feel his heart skipping and skidding under her palm; it worried her greatly. She hadn’t asked to be saddled with him, but she sure didn’t want him dying right in front of her. Essentially on her.
“Apache!” she snapped. “Sit up and stop carrying on. We’re not far from Mexico. I didn’t take you on just to have to dig your grave.”
“I’m fine,” he slurred.
“Good. Because I don’t even have a shovel. And I’m not digging a grave with my bare hands.”
“Can’t die,” he whispered.
“No, that’s right. You can’t. I won’t allow you to.”
“Can’t die until I find her.”
“Her? Her who?”
But he’d lapsed into a half-world by then, too fevered to make much sense or hear her when she spoke. He muttered in his own language, sounding like he was arguing with someone.
“Hush,” she said. She gave him a pat right over his heart. “Settle down now.”
She managed to keep hold of him as they plodded on through the blazing afternoon, but it wasn’t easy. Her arms and back were killing her. He was just so heavy. She couldn’t have picked up a skinny Apache? She had to find one who was the size of a small mountain? She cursed herself. She was too soft. She should have left him ther
e. It was utter madness expending so much energy over a man who was clearly dying.
“Cleopatra?” he rasped as the cactus shadows grew long on the ground and the light blazed orange around them. The sky was a lurid splash of red and gold, all swirled violently together.
“Yes, Apache?”
He drew a shuddery breath that was too close to a death rattle for her liking.
“Thank you.”
Jesus wept. What was a girl supposed to say to that?
“You’re welcome. Now shut up and stop dying.”
13
SHE THOUGHT SHE was hallucinating at first. It was deep in the night, and she had only skipped in and out of sleep for the past few days. The more tired she got, the thinner reality seemed. Her arms were locked around the Apache, who had long ago fallen silent—she would have thought he was dead if she hadn’t still been able to feel his heartbeat under her palm. The night grew dense around them, heightening the sense of intimacy. Her sense of intimacy; he wasn’t feeling anything except pain. It began to feel like they had always been together, here on this horse, in the middle of nowhere. It was just them and the darkness and the uncompromising fury of her thirst. Now and then she pressed her forehead into his hot back and let her eyelids droop. It didn’t seem unusual anymore to be pressed up hard against his naked skin. In fact, it was strangely comforting.
She dreamed about water as she rode. Waterfalls and fountains and cascades of rain, puddles and ponds and splashing spigots. At one point she imagined she was working the handle of a pump—up and down, up and down, up and down—but nothing came out. She felt like crying from the sheer frustration of it, but she couldn’t. She had no moisture left in her to make tears.
So when she smelled water, she thought she must be dreaming. But no, she was awake, still rocking along on the horse, with a naked Apache in her arms. She’d never really thought about the smell of water before, but now the heavy perfume saturated the air around her, filling her with hope. It was a luscious, cool, fresh smell that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.
“Apache!” She gave him a few sharp slaps on the chest. “Wake up!”
He mumbled but didn’t wake.
How was she going to find the water in the dark? It was here somewhere; she knew it was. The fragrance was overwhelming. It made her think of grass and leaves and rain.
She pulled Freckles to a halt. The Apache moaned.
“Hush up,” she told him. “I’m listening for water.” She cocked her head. If there was water, it sure wasn’t anything big like a river; there was no rushing or gurgling to be heard. But then faintly, a musical kind of slapping noise. Babble. Isn’t that what they said? A babbling brook . . . Only they didn’t have brooks in the west. Brooks belonged back home, in the green woods. But that was definitely a babble. Very soft.
“Freckles, find the water,” she ordered.
The horse whickered.
“If you’ve got any brains at all, horse, you’ll find that water,” she said sternly, “because I don’t reckon our friend here can make it much longer.”
The scent of the brook, or whatever it was, enveloped her as she urged Freckles on. The babbling grew louder. It was joined by sloshing and lapping. There was definitely running water ahead. Freckles whickered again, her ears flicking, and she picked up the pace.
“That’s right, girl. Water. I’ll let you drink as much as you want, so long as you leave some for me.”
It was either a very small river or a substantial creek. Freckles broke into a trot and went surging into the narrow waterway. Ava felt the spray fly over her boots, wetting her ankles. Freckles stopped dead in the middle of the water and lowered her head. Ava could hear her drinking noisily.
“Hey,” she protested, “back up. How am I supposed to get him down in the middle of the creek? If I drop him, he’ll drown.” She kicked Freckles, but the thirsty horse was having none of it. It didn’t matter how much she kicked or sawed at the reins or cursed a blue streak; the horse refused to move until she’d drunk her fill. Which took roughly forever.
Eventually, the animal lifted her head and shook it, sending horse spit and drops of water flinging back into Ava’s face. Then the horse gave a healthy-sounding neigh and plodded out of the creek.
“That was incredibly selfish,” Ava told her. The horse gave an unladylike snort.
Ava tried to work out how to get down without sending the Apache spilling off. She tried to push him forward so he was draped over Freckles’ neck.
“Apache! Hold on to the horse.” She took his arms and tried to wrap them around the horse’s neck, but he was as limp as hell. There was no way he was gripping anything. He was barely holding on to life. Damn it.
She kept her hand pressed into his back as she swung her leg over the saddle. Even that almost unseated him. She tried to keep him dangling on Freckles’ neck as she slid down, but no luck. He went sliding with her, and next thing she knew, she’d slammed into the hard ground, with him landing on top of her with a meaty thud.
God, he was heavy. He probably weighed more than the horse did.
The stupid horse that didn’t give a toss that she was being squashed to death by an Apache. Now that she was free of riders, Freckles took a couple of steps and then lay down. She gave a horsey sigh and went straight to sleep, not even caring that she was lying on the saddle.
The Apache groaned right in Ava’s ear. She clenched her teeth and shoved him off her; it took all her strength. He went rolling off her and straight down the slope toward the creek. Ava yelped and scrambled to arrest his descent before he drowned. It wasn’t a deep creek, but you could drown in a puddle if you were as incapacitated as he was. She threw her body across him to pin him still.
Her breathing was labored, like she’d been sprinting. Bright spots swirled in front of her, and the world tilted. She was in terrible shape. Not quite as bad as him, but she was only a shade away from passing out.
Water. That was what she needed.
Vaguely, she realized the night was fading. She could just make out the shapes of the bushes and the banks of the creek in the gloom. She could also make out the swirling surface of the slick, dark creek.
“You wait here,” she told the unconscious Apache. “I’m just going to buy a drink from the saloon. I’ll bring you one back.” She crawled to the creek. And, oh my, the water might have been muddy as hell, but it sure tasted good. She crammed cupped handfuls into her mouth. It wasn’t quick enough, so she stretched out on her belly and drank like a horse, submerging her face to take big gulps.
When she was done, her belly felt stretched and painfully full. Was it possible to get drunk on water? Because she felt positively giddy. The perfume of the creek was utterly intoxicating, and the coldness of the water slid down into her like a starburst. The sweetness on her tongue was beyond pleasure. How had she ever taken water for granted? It was miraculous.
She crawled over to Freckles and unbuckled the nearest saddlebag. The horse lifted her head, snorted and then went back to sleep. Ava ignored her and took out a tin mug. She filled it up for the Apache and shuffled back to him on her knees, careful not to spill so much as a drop.
He wasn’t alert enough to drink, so she tore a strip off the petticoat he’d tied around himself and dipped the strip into the mug. Then she lifted his head and squeezed the sodden strip of cloth against his lips. The night had become a sage gray predawn half-light, and she could just make out his eyebrows pulling together. His eyes were still swollen and crusted closed. He made a soft, helpless noise and opened his mouth. She squeezed water onto his lips and managed to get some into him. She jumped when his hand reached up and grabbed her wrist, bringing the cloth hard against his mouth.
“No need to be grabby,” she said. “If you’re awake, you might as well drink from the mug.” She helped prop him up and held the mug to his lips. He gulped the water down
gratefully.
“More,” he growled.
“More, please,” she suggested sniffily as she went to refill the mug. He grabbed hold of her wrist again as she held the mug to his mouth.
“Thank you,” he whispered when he was done. He sure had some pretty manners. They jarred with his lawyerliness.
By then day was threatening to break; an iridescent green sheen was glossing the thin dark line of the horizon.
“I think we should probably stay here through the heat today,” she said. Even though she was worried about Kennedy Voss finding her, she was thoroughly played out and couldn’t find an ounce of energy left in her to face another day of riding in the blazing heat. Besides, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the water. Not yet. She was going to drink until she leaked. The Apache didn’t look capable of getting back on the horse anyway. Hell. Forget the Apache. The horse didn’t look capable of anything but sleeping.
“Seems wise,” the Apache rasped. She didn’t like the look of him. He was like wax.
Please don’t let him die. She didn’t want to be stuck out here with a dead man.
“No seems about it.” As the first pale spill of sunrise pearled the green horizon gold, she took in the creek and the scraggly bushes that grew in clumps. “I’m going to drag you under one of those bushes,” she told him. “It’s probably going to hurt like hell, because you’re one big bruise. But it’s best if we keep you out of the sun today. You’re already burned to a crisp.”
He didn’t respond, which she took as an assent. She untied her blanket, which was rolled up and strapped behind her saddle, and made them a nest under a bush. Then she got her gown out of her saddlebags (she figured she wasn’t going to need it anytime soon) and hung it over the bush to give them extra shade.
