by Tess LeSue
“You knew it wasn’t,” she sniffed. “And I was hardly going to tell you my real name.”
“Why not? You must have worked hard to get as famous as you are.” He really couldn’t keep the rage out of his voice now.
“I did,” she snapped, “but you’ve seen what happens when people know who I am. Look at me.”
“I can’t, remember? I’m blind. And I think you mean look at us.”
“There is no us, Apache. Get it through your head.”
“Yes, there is, Miss Archer. Get that through yours. Until you can get me away from this lunatic, I’m your responsibility.”
18
THREE DAYS OUT of the village, they ran into some of the other Hunters. The famous ones weren’t among them. This was just a bunch of trailhounds, but it was the first sign that Ava and Voss were catching up to the pack.
Ava was beyond surprise these days, so she couldn’t say she was shocked to see that they had an Indian captive. It looked like Voss had been right when he said people would be rounding up random Indians and trying to pass them off as the Plague of the West. There was so much money involved, people were trying to scam their way to winning it. Scamming was certainly safer and easier than trying to catch the real Plague of the West. She could only imagine LeFoy’s face when the Hunters rode in carting all these men. He’d know in an instant who the fakes were—but none of these fools knew that yet.
Still . . . At least there was a bonus if people brought the Plague of the West in alive. It was a relief these idiots were bringing captives to San Francisco and not dead men.
“Look, Voss! Miss Archer!” the Hunters cried merrily when they spied them. “We found him! We caught the Plague of the West!”
“Fancy that,” Voss drawled in his hick-farm-boy way, “so did we.”
The trailhounds looked put out at that. They inspected the Apache, who was sitting limply on one of Voss’s packhorses. He was still tied up. So was Dog; Voss had hooked the animal’s rope to Ava’s saddle. “Keep him away from me. I don’t like the way he looks at me,” Voss had instructed her.
The Apache had been more docile than Dog. Ava thought he must have been ailing again.
“Your Indian don’t look a patch on ours,” one of the trailhounds observed.
“That’s because we subdued ours.” Voss grinned, happily taking credit for the Apache’s sorry state. “Look at the beating we gave him. The poor bastard can’t even sit up straight.”
Ava glanced at the Apache. He wasn’t looking good, it was true. He wasn’t fevered anymore, but he’d barely said a word for days, and he was listless and limp.
“That just goes to show it’s not him,” the trailhound argued. “There’s no way the Plague of the West would let himself be beaten like that.”
Voss flared up at the perceived insult. “The Plague of the West ain’t never met me before.”
The trailhound seemed to remember who he was talking to. He mumbled an apology. But then couldn’t resist adding, “I still reckon ours is the real deal.”
“Well, let’s ask Miss Archer about that, shall we?” Voss suggested. “After all, she’s the expert on him.”
They all turned to look at her. Ava sighed. She knew what Voss wanted of her. She also knew her assessment would save the poor man the other Hunters had captured—but it would doom her Apache.
She could hardly call Voss a liar. Not in front of all of these men. He’d shoot her. Or rape her and torture her, then shoot her. And maybe shoot the Apache too. So it wouldn’t help anyone to take that route.
She’d have to perform. For now. Until she could get herself and the Apache out of this freak show.
She rode close to the trailhounds’ captive, who was wide-eyed and lassoed to the back of a horse. She didn’t even think he was an Indian. He looked Mexican.
“Do you speak English?” she asked him. He frowned and shook his head. “Spanish?” She switched to Spanish and he lit up. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Hernández. Jorge Hernández.”
“This isn’t the Plague of the West,” she told Voss and the trailhounds. But of course they all knew that already.
“How can you tell?” the trailhound demanded. “He’s a known liar! Of course he’s not going to say it’s him.”
“She knows,” Voss snapped. “She’s Ava Archer. She’s met him, you idiot. She’s the reason you know about him.”
“The man you’ve caught doesn’t even have blue eyes,” Ava said dismissively. “LeFoy will laugh you out of San Francisco if you turn up with him, and so will everyone else. You might as well let him go.”
“Does your Indian have blue eyes?”
“What do you think?” Voss rolled his eyes. “Of course he does.”
Ava couldn’t believe the nerve of him, lying through his teeth like that. He’d better hope no one ripped the Apache’s blindfold off to check.
“We heard Ortiz had him.” The trailhound was more sullen than suspicious. He just wanted to vent his displeasure at having his “Indian” taken away from him.
“Didn’t stop you from catching him, did it?” Voss said pointedly.
“If you don’t let him go, I will,” Ava told them. She dismounted and untied Jorge Hernández. Nobody stopped her. “We’ll have to bring him with us to the next town.”
“Like hell we will,” the trailhound snapped. “If we ain’t taking him to San Francisco, we can leave him here.”
“He’ll die,” Ava said impatiently. Damn it. She was picking up more and more responsibilities as she went, and she didn’t like it.
“Sounds like a solution to me,” the trailhound grunted.
“C’mon, Hackett, if we don’t have the Indian, we might as well get back to Frisco before everyone else. We can put a bet on Voss here. At least then we can cover our losses.”
“He’s my Indian,” Ava snapped. “If you bet on anyone, you should bet on me.”
The trailhounds considered that for a moment before erupting in laughter. “That’s a good one.” The group galloped off, kicking dust in Ava’s face. She and Jorge Hernández coughed as the cloud enveloped them.
“You got some nerve, lady,” Voss said when they were gone, but once again he sounded admiring. “He ain’t your Indian anymore. In case you forgot, you’re both my prisoners now. And we ain’t taking their Indian with us neither. We got no call for him.”
“He’s not an Indian,” Ava corrected him. “And his name is Jorge.”
“I don’t care if his name is Petunia. You’re leaving him here.”
“You can ride one of the packhorses,” Ava told Jorge Hernández, completely disregarding Voss.
“No, he cain’t,” Voss disagreed. “They’re mine. He can ride on your packhorse with old Deathrider there.”
Ava stared dubiously at her packhorse, the one Voss had brought along with him. It was even more pathetic-looking than Freckles used to be. Freckles, on the other hand, had grown perkier since they’d found the creek. It was like her near-death experience had given her a new lease on life.
Hell. She didn’t want to ride the packhorse and give her horse to the Apache and Jorge Hernández. She stalked over to where the Apache was slumped on the swayback old packhorse. “Apache, get off that packhorse. You can ride with me.”
“You best start calling him Deathrider,” Voss advised. “You’ll wreck everything if you keep calling him Apache.”
Ava rolled her eyes. “No one is around to hear me.”
“But they will be. You start practicing, you hear.”
“Fine. Deathrider, get off that packhorse. You can ride with me.”
“That don’t seem like a good idea,” Voss observed.
“We’ve done it before. I know he can behave himself. Unlike some.” Ava helped “Deathrider” down from the packhorse. He slid bonelessly from the sa
ddle, looking like he could barely stand. Ava slung an arm around him to help him. She frowned at his inability to walk unaided. She’d been sure he was getting better the other night. He’d certainly been well enough to . . . enjoy his bath. . . .
She flushed, remembering the sight of his arousal.
It seemed like forever ago, but it had been only a few days since she’d scrubbed the mud from him. She felt the flush spread through her as she remembered rubbing the cloth over those incredible muscles, revealing inch after inch of shining rosewood skin as the mud slid away. She’d felt the charge building between them, an energy like before one of those plains storms: a shimmer, a pulse, a rising thrum.
It was just because he was mostly naked, and bathing a grown man was a mighty intimate act, that was all.
Although that wasn’t all, was it? That wasn’t even close to all.
The truth, Ava thought wryly, as she led the still blind and weak Apache to her horse, was that he had a body that made her mind melt. The lean perfection of him would make any woman’s knees go weak. Being alone with him in the hushed lamplight, on a sultry night, running a cloth over every inch of his hard-packed body . . . she’d felt the slow uncurling of desire the minute she laid hands on him. Before, if she was honest with herself.
And then to see evidence of his own desire . . .
The memory of the hard thrust of him against the transparent cotton of her petticoat made her stomach loosen and that slow, hot feeling uncurl through her all over again. The way the cotton had clung damply to the thickness of him, to the swollen head of his cock . . .
Jesus wept, what was wrong with her?
She shook her head to dislodge the vision. So even his cock was perfect. . . . It didn’t mean anything.
She yanked him harder than she meant to toward the horse. Dog whined excitedly to see his owner so close, nudging him with his wet nose.
“Here’s the stirrup.” As she led his hand to the stirrup so he’d know where to place his foot, she tried to ignore the bolt of lightning that traveled through his fingers and up her arm, straight to . . . places she shouldn’t be thinking about right now. “Up you get, Apache.”
“Deathrider,” Voss corrected impatiently. “You’d better get that through your thick head by the time we get to Frisco.”
Ava wished she had some laudanum left. Or any bullets for her gun. She was mighty sick of Voss and his bullying.
She swung into the saddle behind the Apache, who was slumped forward. His long black hair hung in a sheet over his face. Ava pulled him gently upright and reached around him to take the reins.
“You ready to go, Jorge?” she called over her shoulder. Poor Jorge Hernández looked utterly bewildered. She bet he’d just been some poor farmer going about his own business when the trailhounds had captured him. “Don’t worry,” she reassured him in her clumsy Spanish. “We’ll make sure you get home again.”
To her astonishment, Jorge Hernández went running at the packhorse and vaulted into the saddle. He lashed the swayback old animal into a gallop and went tearing off through the chaparral.
“Goddamn it!” Voss yelled. He fired a couple of shots, but Jorge Hernández was gone. “I ain’t chasing him,” Voss growled. “It’d be a pure waste of energy. Looks like you’ve lost your packhorse.”
“Again,” Ava corrected. “I’ve lost my packhorse again.” At least all the water was on Freckles. Everything else could be replaced. And she couldn’t help but feel glad for poor old Jorge Hernández. She hoped he got home safe.
“C’mon, Miss Archer. Ortiz is liable to be there already,” Voss said impatiently. “Ride ahead of me so I can keep an eye on you.”
Ava rolled her eyes. As if she’d forgotten. He was a stickler for keeping a close eye on her since she’d drugged him with the laudanum. At least he wasn’t interested in talking to her. He tended to go shooting small game, keeping her in his sights while he entertained himself killing things. If she tried to run for it, he’d catch her in no time.
Ava kicked Freckles into a trot and scrambled to keep hold of the Apache, who was jolting around like a rag doll.
“Are you feeling all right, Apache?” she asked, hauling him hard against her and wrapping her arm right around him. His hands were roped together in front of him.
“Head hurts,” he mumbled.
“You don’t feel like you’ve got a fever anymore.” He was warm against her, but he didn’t have that furnace heat that he’d had when he was sick. It was just normal human warmth. “You’d best perk up if you want to make a convincing Deathrider,” she said dryly.
She felt him tense in her arms. As well he might. It was a mad plan, and it didn’t bode well for him. If Voss went through with this, the Apache was liable to get lynched—either by the other Hunters or in San Francisco at the end of the trail.
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I’ll get us away from him before you get mistaken for Deathrider.”
“So you can take me in all by yourself and win the bet?” he asked, and there was more than a little bitterness in his inflection.
He’d perked up at least. She supposed the threat of a lynching would do that to a man. Especially if he was going to be lynched for something he hadn’t even done, mistaken for another man.
“Are you catching Voss’s idiocy?” she sighed. “If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been trying to get rid of you since I met you. I don’t have the slightest interest in taking you one step farther than I have to; I wanted to leave you back in that village.” But despite her words, she was oddly comforted by being close to him. His body felt familiar after their time alone together in the desert. She nestled against him in the saddle, and the solidness of him in front of her was reassuring.
“So, you’ve met this Deathrider character, have you?” the Apache asked her. He was getting livelier by the minute. She began to suspect that he wasn’t quite as sick as he seemed. Maybe it was just a ruse to lull Voss into a false sense of security. Which would be smart, as Voss was a mean son of a bitch. The Apache had seemed so weak that Voss hadn’t bothered him much so far. He wasn’t a threat. Maybe, Ava thought, that was the Apache’s intent . . . because if there was one thing she’d observed about the Apache since they’d been together, it was that he was no fool. The man was quick-witted and sharp-tongued. And distractingly attractive . . .
“You know Deathrider well?” the Apache kept prodding her.
“Of course,” Ava lied. She didn’t know why she bothered, as what did it matter if this beat-up Apache knew that she’d never met the man she had spent her life writing about?
But it was point of pride. Or rather, shame. It would probably ruin her reputation if people knew she hadn’t so much as seen the Plague of the West. . . .
“What’s he like?” the Apache asked, sitting up straighter.
“Terrifying.” She was being glib.
“That so?” He didn’t sound like he believed her. “Terrifying enough to deserve this Hunt?”
Ava pulled a face. “No one deserves this Hunt. Except maybe Voss. He should be the one they’re hunting.”
“But they’re not. They’re hunting the Indian instead.” He sounded even more bitter now.
“Because he’s a legend,” Ava countered.
“And he’s a legend because of you.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” She didn’t like talking about this. It made her feel . . . a big mess of feelings, chief amongst them guilt. “I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about,” she said abruptly.
“If you say so.”
“I don’t. Deathrider is a cold-blooded killer.”
“Is he?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve seen him kill people?”
“Of course not. I haven’t seen Voss kill people either, but I know he’s a killer.”
“He admits to it. Does Deathrider?”
“I don’t know. I—” She stopped midsentence. She’d been about to say I don’t know. I’ve never met him. Jesus wept, she couldn’t keep her story straight for even a minute. That was dangerous.
It was definitely time to retire. The thought broke over her like a wave: a revelation. She was going to retire. Now. The decision happened instantaneously. She broke out in chills at the sweet, honest force of it. She’d lost any enthusiasm for her work. Her notebooks were still packed away in her saddlebags, and she had no desire to pull them out. At some point she’d stopped thinking of this in terms of a story—she’d been too busy just trying to survive.
She didn’t want to live like this anymore. Not for another minute.
“‘I don’t know. I what . . . ?’” the Apache echoed her, wanting to know how she’d meant to finish the sentence.
“Apache,” she interrupted him, “we need to get out of here.”
“What?”
“We need to get out of here. Now. I don’t want to go to San Francisco. Not with Voss. Not at all. I don’t care if they ever catch the Plague of the West . . .” She paused. “No. That’s not true. I still care. But I don’t want to care anymore. I want to stop.” The words tumbled out of her, and they were followed by an intense swell of relief. How long had she wanted to stop and not been able to admit it to herself? Because now that she was saying the words aloud, they felt right; they felt true. And they felt good.
She laughed, feeling tears well up. “I want to stop.”
“Now you want to stop?” He didn’t sound pleased. He clearly didn’t understand the importance of what had just happened. By why would he? He was just an Apache who’d been caught up in events he had no part in. He had his own events.
“You didn’t want to stop before you got everyone tangled up in this insane Hunt?” he growled.
She blinked, startled by his vehemence. And then she got irked. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not blaming me for this Hunt. This is all LeFoy’s doing, not mine.” She was feeling so much zestier since she’d made her decision. Zesty enough to enjoy bickering with the Apache again. She’d get a ship to New York, she decided. She didn’t fancy taking the California Trail east, going against the flow of immigrants, over all of those miles and months of hard traveling. She could rest on the ship, maybe write up the last of her notes into the final books A.A. Archer would ever publish. And then she’d collect her final paychecks and retire. Not to needlepoint though. She hated sewing. . . .
