by Tess LeSue
She had deep brown eyes. He’d been distracted by that at the time. They were a velvety dark brown, much softer than he’d been expecting. Although he didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Something pale and steely maybe. Not those doe eyes. There were darker ripples in their chocolaty depths. They pulled him in and almost made him forget where he was and what he was doing.
“I’m a disappointment,” she echoed eventually, and he could hear the slight wounded tremor in her voice. “Me? That’s interesting. Because for a legend, you’re a sad sight.”
That was true enough. But it was working in his favor, because none of them was watching him closely. Even knowing who he was, they weren’t on their guard. They assumed the ropes were enough to hold him.
They were wrong.
As he’d ridden with the Englishman in the darkness, he’d managed to work a small knife free from the Englishman’s belt without him noticing. Deathrider was an experienced hunter and could move without causing a ripple in his wake. It wasn’t too hard to palm the knife, considering the pace at which they were galloping and that he was jolting all over the place. The Englishman was too busy trying to keep Deathrider in the saddle to notice small movements. Deathrider made holding on to him harder than it needed to be for the Englishman, flopping bonelessly, to give cover to his theft of the knife.
Then he had managed to work the knife through the ropes as they bumped along. He’d been sure when Ava had hauled him from the horse that he’d be given away, that the ropes would pull free in her hands, but somehow he’d managed to keep hold of them tightly enough that she didn’t notice. None of them did. They were too busy watching Ava’s show. Deathrider played along, glad of the distraction.
Once Ava had ripped his blindfold off, he’d played for time, to give his eyes time to adjust. And the miracle was, he could see. It felt mighty odd, after being blindfolded for so long, and his eyes were sensitive to the spreading sunrise, but he drank in the color of it all with an explosion of relief. He wasn’t blind!
He took in the woman in front of him with avid curiosity. He’d been wondering about her all this time. She was rumpled and stained and looked tired as hell; she had dark circles under her eyes and hollow cheeks. But she was striking as hell. She had a long, straight nose, slashing cheekbones, big dark eyes and a downturned mouth that was sexy beyond belief. He drank in his first sight of her. She looked better than he’d imagined. His gaze lingered on the collarbone visible between the open neck of her peasant shirt, and on her long limbs. She looked strong. Powerful. Supple.
And hurt. He’d genuinely hurt her feelings with that crack about her being a disappointment.
Which made him feel about an inch tall, but had the advantage of making her easy prey right now.
Despite Becky’s admonition, the Englishman hadn’t pulled his gun. He was merely sitting loosely in his saddle, watching events unfold, confident he was in charge of the situation. Deathrider liked his odds.
Even though he was bruised and weak, they were no match for him. They just didn’t know it yet. Dog did. He’d picked up on Deathrider’s body language and crept forward, ready to spring. He was still tethered by a rope to Freckles, but Deathrider figured he could probably drag the horse with him a few steps—and that would be all he’d need.
Deathrider calculated how many steps there were between him and Becky. Ava’s gun had no bullets, so it was only the Englishman he had to worry about. And the Englishman had a soft spot for Becky, so he’d be easy to neutralize. Deathrider gathered his energy. He’d have only one shot at this.
He inhaled and gave a sharp whistle and then leapt sideways. Dog surged forward, barking like a wild creature, his lips curled back to reveal his fangs. Ava screamed, and the Arab reared beneath the Englishman. Deathrider flicked the ropes from his wrists and leapt onto the mare behind Becky. He had the knife to her throat before she could even scream.
“Hush,” he cautioned her. “You don’t want to hurt yourself, do you? Dog!” He called his animal off. Dog pulled Freckles closer to Deathrider and turned to face Ava and the Englishman, growling low in his chest.
On the ground, Ava Archer’s mouth had dropped open. “What are you doing?” Her battered brown hat had fallen off, and Deathrider saw she had red hair. Beautiful dark red hair that glinted in the sun. It fell over her shoulder in a thick braid, which shot sparks in the sunlight.
He ignored her. “Why don’t you pass me your gun, mister?” he said lazily to the Englishman.
“I don’t think so.” The Englishman pulled his weapon and aimed it at Deathrider’s head. Deathrider moved so Becky was between him and the weapon. He pulled Becky’s gun from its holster. He’d shoot the weapon from the Englishman’s hand—he just needed to be careful that the man’s weapon didn’t fire in the process and accidentally shoot one of the women.
“I know you’re fond of her,” he warned the Englishman. “Be sensible.”
“I’m not in this for the money, you savage,” the Englishman told him. “I don’t need to keep you alive for the bonus. I’m quite content to shoot you now and simply take your head to LeFoy.”
“No!”
To Deathrider’s shock, Ava launched herself at the Englishman, pushing him off the horse. The gun went off, firing straight up into the sky. As the bullet came back to earth, it hit Ava in the leg. Deathrider’s heart stopped. And then she screamed bloody murder, which shocked it into beating again. The banshee screeching made Dog whine and wriggle backward. He looked up at Deathrider, concerned.
“You shot me, you idiot!” Ava yelled at the Englishman, who was tangled up in his stirrup and hanging upside down.
“Jussy!”
“Ava!”
Becky and Deathrider fought free of each other as they dove from the mare and ran for the Englishman and Ava.
“How bad is it?” Deathrider asked, shoving Ava’s hands away from her wound. It looked like the bullet had gone clear through her calf, but it had pulled threads from her skirt and stockings with it, embedding them in the wound. He didn’t like the look of it.
“How bad is it? It’s bad!” she yelled, howling when he touched it.
“Stop yelling, you big baby, and let me look at it.”
“Baby!” she was outraged. “I just got shot!”
“I’ve been shot plenty of times,” he told her, trying to keep her distracted. “This is nothing.”
He pulled his shirt over his head and used it to bandage her wound. “We need to get you cleaned up.” He glanced up at Becky, who was trying to wrestle the Englishman out of his stirrup. “You got any of that laudanum left, or did you use it all on Voss and the Hunters?”
“If you’ve hurt him, I’ll shoot you!” Becky threatened him.
“He’s fine. Give me the laudanum.” He sighed as he realized Ava Archer was crying. She was white with pain and trembling. Her hand had found his arm and was patting it.
There went his freedom.
* * *
• • •
THE ENGLISHMAN HOLSTERED his gun only after Ava threatened to shoot him. She’d snatched Becky’s pistol off Deathrider and waved it threateningly at the Englishman. She’d taken a dose of laudanum and wasn’t to be trusted with the weapon, so Deathrider wrestled it off her.
“You said he was a crack shot,” Ava slurred at Becky, “and look at him: shooting me by accident.”
“It was hardly his fault,” Becky protested. “And go easy on him. The poor love has broken his ankle.”
“Stop bickering,” Deathrider told them. “Save it until we get to safety.” He was the only one able to move under his own power. Ava was shot; the Englishman had broken his ankle when he got tangled in the stirrup; and Becky had gone and pulled something in her back, trying to get the Englishman untangled. She was hunched over and in incredible pain.
They were possibly the most incompetent Hunters of
all time.
“You’re lucky I’m not a marauding killer,” he sighed. “Or you’d all be dead by now.”
“Why aren’t you marauding?” Ava asked suspiciously. “It makes no sense.” She was slurring her words something awful, and her eyelids were very heavy. In a minute she’d be nodding off. He didn’t have much time.
“I’ve never been one for marauding,” he said, leaving her to go and help the Englishman into the saddle. “Seems a messy, pointless business.”
“Unhand me,” the Englishman protested. Deathrider ignored him and boosted him onto his Arab. The man was deathly pale and sweating in pain.
“Becky, can you ride?” Deathrider considered her contorted body. “You probably need some laudanum too.”
“I don’t believe in it,” she said stiffly. “I like my wits about me.”
“Me too,” Ava slurred, “but no one gave me a choice.”
“Becky can ride with me,” the Englishman offered. “I’ll take care of you, petal.”
Deathrider saw the tears well in Becky’s eyes when she heard the tenderness in the Englishman’s voice. He sighed. Amateurs. Deathrider helped her up and watched as she was cocooned in the Englishman’s arms. She burrowed into his chest.
“No shooting me, you hear?” Deathrider warned the Englishman. “I’ll get you all to a town and make sure you’re cared for, but you’re not to shoot me. I won’t shoot you either. Deal?”
The Englishman didn’t look happy about it but gave a jerky nod.
“I guess you look like an honorable man,” Deathrider said dubiously. “Shake on it?” He held his hand out. The Englishman looked down his nose at it but swallowed his pride and shook it.
“Why are you helping us?” he asked Deathrider. He looked deeply confused.
“Because I owe her one,” Deathrider sighed, jerking his head in Ava’s direction. “She saved my life.” She’d also endangered his life, and worse, but now probably wasn’t the time to carp on about it.
“C’mon Cleopatra,” he said, bending to help her up. She was barely conscious. “I’d carry you, but I’m still not far from being one of the walking wounded myself.” He pulled her arm around his neck. “Can you hop to the horse?”
“You couldn’t carry me anyway,” she slurred. “I’m too big.”
“Is that a challenge?” She couldn’t walk anyway. She could barely stand. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the horse. She was deadweight but nothing he couldn’t manage, even in his sorry state.
“Show-off.”
“Don’t you know who I am?” he drawled, helping her astride the horse. “I’m the Ghost of the Trails, White Wolf, the Plague of the West.” He swung up behind her in the saddle. “I carry women like you off on a daily basis.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic.”
“Sure, there is.” He turned to the Englishman. “Follow me,” he said. “There’s a settlement just northeast of here.” He glanced westward, knowing that was where Micah was. Hell. He’d have to ride hard to catch Pete Hamble and Micah now. After he’d sorted these three.
Dog barked and Deathrider realized he hadn’t untethered him. He whistled and Dog jumped up, resting his paws on the saddle. The mare grew skittish, and Ava gasped.
“It’s just Dog,” Deathrider soothed her as he untied Dog. “You two are friends, remember?”
“He looked like he was going to kill me before,” she said in her laudanum-slow way. Then she sighed. “I’m scared of dogs.”
Deathrider kicked Becky’s mare into a trot. Dog barked happily and ran alongside with Freckles and the packhorses. “Keep your leg up, sweetheart,” he told Ava. He pulled the leg that had been shot up in front of them, hooking it around the pommel of the saddle. The shirt he’d bandaged her leg with was sodden with blood. They needed to get her some help pretty quick. Deathrider clamped his hand on the wound. Ava had slid off into a laudanum haze; she didn’t even flinch when he touched her calf. He rearranged her so her head was against his chest, and held her tight against himself. At least she wouldn’t feel pain while they rode. Unlike poor Becky, whom he could hear moaning and whimpering. He hoped the Englishman could talk her into taking the laudanum—or she was going to have a horrific ride. The Englishman probably needed it too, but one of them had to be clearheaded enough to ride.
It was good to have that blindfold off. Deathrider drank in the rolling landscape, which was crystal clear in the morning light. He would never take his sight for granted again. Or his body. He was feeling closer to his normal self. He could ride easier, and breathe easier, and he didn’t ache from head to toe.
Before they reached the settlement, Deathrider stopped to get himself ready. He could hardly go riding in with his long hair flying, bare chested, his tattoos visible. He’d be liable to get shot, considering the whole territory was on the lookout for him. He borrowed a shirt from the Englishman. It was tight on him, but it buttoned up. And he stole Ava Archer’s hat. He pulled his hair into a knot and jammed it under the hat.
“You almost look white,” the Englishman observed, saying it as though it was a compliment. “Almost.”
He’d do well enough. People saw what they wanted to see, and the folks at this place would see a white man. Especially because he was riding in with other whites.
The settlement was a collection of modest Spanish ranches, not huge aristocratic haciendas, just a farming community dating back to Spanish settlement. Deathrider hedged his bets and made for the small whitewashed church. They were greeted by a wiry padre who shaded his eyes with his hand as he watched them ride up.
“My friends need a doctor,” Deathrider said in Spanish as he explained their sorry state. “We were set on by those menaces out of San Francisco. The ones chasing that Indian,” he said. He was hazarding a guess that the padre had at least heard of the Hunt.
He had. “It’s a sorry state of affairs when honest travelers aren’t safe,” the padre commiserated. “We have no doctors here, but Señora Torres is a capable healer. She can set bones.”
“How is she with gunshot wounds and bad backs?” Deathrider asked, lifting Ava down from the mare.
“We’ll see,” the padre said mildly.
It turned out that Señora Torres was better than Deathrider could have hoped for. He carried Ava to a bed inside the señora’s house and then carried Becky to a couch and the Englishman to a bench. The Englishman had fainted the moment he climbed down from the Arab.
“Leave them with me and the girls,” the señora said, shooing Deathrider away. She sent her daughters scurrying for water and soap, sheets to cut into bandages and various bits and pieces.
“I will help you with your animals,” the padre said, ushering Deathrider away from the chaos.
Now that they were safe, Deathrider was overcome with exhaustion. It was an effort to get the horses stabled and fed and their saddlebags unbuckled.
“We had one of those Hunters through just last night,” the padre told Deathrider, as he filled the troughs with water for the horses.
Deathrider felt a wild stab of hope. How many of them would have been this close?
“Not a man by the name of Hamble by any chance?” Deathrider asked, trying to keep his voice even.
The padre gave him a sharp look. “Yes. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Quite the opposite,” Deathrider said grimly. “Did he have an Indian with him? Because that man is a friend of mine.”
“He did.” The padre looked worried now. “You’re friends with the Plague of the West? Is that why you’re all injured? Because we want no trouble here.”
“He’s not the Plague of the West,” Deathrider assured the Padre. “He’s just an innocent caught up in this nightmare. Just like us.”
Not that Ava Archer was innocent. He looked at the house. To save Micah, he’d have to leave her here. And who knew
what would happen to her—if Voss would find her again . . . ?
It was none of his business.
But, if it was none of his business, why did he feel so responsible?
23
THE BEST THING to do would have been to slip away. But Deathrider couldn’t bring himself to do it. The padre said Hamble had left less than two hours before, so it would be no trouble to catch him up. According to the priest, Micah was not only alive, but was also his usual mouthy self. That was reassuring. If Deathrider borrowed the Englishman’s Arab, he and Dog would have no trouble tracking them down quickly. The ground was parched from a long summer, and so there’d been no rain to wash the tracks away; the devil winds weren’t blowing either, so any tracks they’d left would be as clear as day.
It was time to save Micah.
But he couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. He should have, but he couldn’t.
He stood on the veranda for a while, watching through the lace curtains as the señora and her daughters finished bandaging Ava Archer’s wound, wondering what was wrong with him. The woman was a nightmare. He should have been glad to leave her. To be free of her.
“Come in, señor,” Señora Torres called when she spied him through the open door. The double doors to the bedroom opened directly onto the veranda; the señora held back the lace curtain and beckoned him to enter. “Come and see. Your wife will be as good as new.”
He opened his mouth to tell the señora that Ava wasn’t his wife, but stopped himself. What did it matter? Instead, he gave her a smile and stepped inside. He saw the señora give a disapproving look at his hat, which remained on his head, but he wasn’t about to take it off.
“I will give you some privacy,” the señora told him. “We’ll go set your friend’s ankle now. Come on, girls.”
“Thank you.” He watched them go. They smiled at him and closed the door to give Ava and him privacy.
