“Gold?” he mouthed. He braced his thumbs into his gun belt.
She nodded, biting her lip. “Did I do well?” she whispered.
“You did right fine, honey. As well or better than any man.” Nervous as he was of watchers, pride still blazed out of every inch in his body.
She allowed herself a few triumphant dance steps to push back her nagging fears for Uncle William and Aunt Viola.
Gareth shot a quick glance around them, checking for more watchers than the fretful horses. But the other passengers were tucked inside the stages, while the last guard was climbing back onboard.
Kenly whistled a quick warning at him.
“You have to hand it over now. Then you can leave for San Francisco.” Gareth grabbed her elbow and started for the stationhouse, using the same move he’d employed during many of their escapades.
“No.” She dug in her heels, rooting herself deeper than the walls around them. “Where is Uncle William? Orrin told me he’d meet him here.”
For the first time, Gareth’s expression grew harder than what she’d seen before and sent her stomach diving into her boots.
“Gareth, talk to me.”
“It’s the height of raiding season, Portia. You’ve got to leave.”
“What’s wrong with Aunt Viola?”
Silence whipped through the ruins faster than any sandstorm. Even the dog turned to stare at them.
“She had another miscarriage a few days ago.” Gareth’s voice was too harsh to belong to him. His hand fell away from Portia’s arm like a broken manacle.
“How bad is she?” Portia grabbed Gareth by the lapels and dragged him down to look into her eyes. She and Gareth had always talked to each other, always told each other the truth, ever since she was twelve and he was twenty.
For him to lie to her now was far more terrifying than riding through Apache Pass with a squad of cavalry around her.
Gareth’s silver eyes held no more hope than twilight’s last rays. He wet his lips.
“Don’t you dare try to lie to me now, Gareth Lowell.” She rolled the cloth a little tighter around her knuckles, completely ignoring the crossed cartridge belts.
“When I left her two days ago, I went straight to the big Catholic church and prayed I wouldn’t find her in the churchyard when I returned.” Gareth wrapped his big, warm hands around her very cold ones. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you better news, honey. But you know she wouldn’t want you to be in danger.”
Portia rested her forehead against him, her heart shaking somewhere against her throat. Aunt Viola, who’d opened her home and her heart to a motherless child, who’d always supported and cherished her no matter what mischief she’d gotten into. Aunt Viola, the only mother she had now.
The road ahead was suddenly very clear.
“I must go help her.” She shoved her sobs deep into her belly where they couldn’t be heard and drew herself erect. “I’ll take the package to Tucson with you.”
“Have you gone mad, Portia? With Victorio’s army on the loose, you want to ride across Arizona?”
“I must help save Aunt Viola’s life, something neither you nor anybody else can do.” If nothing else and the worst had happened, she could manage the household, while Uncle William dealt with his own ravaging grief. She bit her knuckle to force back a sob.
“Explain yourself, Portia.” Steel would have been friendlier than his eyes.
“Neil and Brian are only little boys, who need somebody to look after them,” Portia continued with barely a tremor in her voice, despite how she’d whitened after a look at his face. “Aunt Viola’s maid can either tend to her or the boys, but not both. You know Uncle William has his hands full, running this branch of the business.”
If she assumed—as she must—that Aunt Viola had improved since Gareth left. Portia was the only blood kin Viola had west of the Mississippi and she alone could ease the family’s burden.
“But if I’m there, I can take care of Neil and Brian. So Aunt Viola will rest easily and recover more quickly,” Portia finished, desperation leaking through her overly courteous tones.
“Aunt Viola?” Baylor questioned from a step behind Portia. Kenly’s long shadow, with the crisp rifle, flanked her on the other side.
“Miss Townsend is Mrs. Donovan’s niece,” Gareth announced bluntly.
The stationmaster’s imperiousness immediately washed out of Baylor’s face to be replaced by stunned horror.
Oh, dear God in heaven, Viola Donovan’s condition was common knowledge. Gareth’s fear wasn’t a beloved foster son’s nervous twitches but the frostbite from terror’s wind.
Portia made a small, pitiful sound and staggered slightly before recovering herself. “I’m sure I can help Aunt Viola,” she reiterated.
The three men regarded her with some sympathy but no gentleness. Sweet words and pretty gestures would solve nothing here.
Then Baylor and Kenly looked at Gareth, silently letting him carry the argument.
“This is one of the worst raiding seasons in years, Portia. Hundreds of savages roam those mountains, every one bent on murder and plunder.”
“Of course, it’s war time,” she acknowledged with barely a tremor. Her jaw was sharp and tight above the ornate bow which steadied her hat.
“The only route from here to Tucson is a one, perhaps two day ride across those mountains. We’ll be dodging savages every step of the way, especially when we stop for water.”
“I’ll manage.” Her backbone was tall and straight, her blue eyes level. “Remember when we went hunting in the Sierra Nevadas and had to outride that blizzard? I’ll do very well this time, just as I did then.”
Yes, she had kept her head but blowing snow was almighty different than howling bullets. She crisply told her stomach to stop tying knots like objections.
“Will you hurry up? Daylight’s wasting!” the lead driver hollered at them. “We’ve got to make it through the pass before dark.”
“Do you truly understand, Portia?” Gareth stepped to within an inch of her. “Every one of those heathen will consider you a greater prize than any fancy horse or purse of gold. They will abuse you shamefully and pass you among their friends. You will pray for death.”
She flinched but rallied, coming back to meet him toe to toe. “We’ll have to ride fast.”
He caught her chin in his hand.
“Remember how well I know you, Portia. I’d rather haul a box of cartridges through those canyons than you because they’d be of use, rather than a magnet for trouble. If you cause any disturbance, I swear to you on my mother’s grave, that I will knock you out and carry you like those cartridges to keep you safe.”
“You’re being absurd.” She sniffed and tried to jerk away. Baylor and Kenly came to attention and boxed her in like guardsmen, without touching her.
“Do you promise to behave?” Gareth demanded, his voice deepening to what he’d use with a man.
“That’s not necessary.” How dare he demand that sort of guarantee from her? Didn’t he trust her after all the years they’d known each other and all the escapades they’d been on together? This ride would be to help Uncle William and Aunt Viola. Shouldn’t that be enough?
“Do you swear?”
The three words hung in the hot air, quieting even the drivers.
“You have my word that I will always act as befits a lady.” She gave him what she could. Her lips were a thin, furious line.
Gareth stared down into Portia’s blue eyes, wondering what had triggered the switch from worried niece to angry teenager.
It was the best promise he could hope for. God willing it would be enough but his belly trusted it no more than rotgut whiskey.
“Thank you, Portia. You have fifteen minutes to change into whatever boys’ clothing lurks in that carpetbag.” He released her and stepped back, while the erstwhile stationmasters returned to their previous relaxed alertness.
“Ten minutes,” she retorted. She stamped her foot but qu
ickly turned the movement into a fast departure for the depot.
“Good luck, you fools!” one stagecoach driver shouted.
Gareth waved back, not bothering to disagree with his new title.
“Yaw!” The two stages pulled out in a tumult of drumming hooves, thundering wheels, and jangling harnesses. Dust stormed over the tiny station, turning it once again into a ruin.
“We’re coming with you,” Kenly said quietly.
Gareth snapped his gaze back to the other man. “I thought you two were heading north,” he remarked.
“Bit late in the year for the high country.”
“These old bones can certainly use some hot sun,” Baylor added. “Not to mention mountain riding wouldn’t suit my favorite saddle horse.”
“Thank you.” Gareth inclined his head. The odds of taking Portia safely through to Tucson had just increased from miniscule to barely possible.
“Can she truly be ready in ten minutes?” Baylor asked.
“Oh yes, since she said so. She never lies.”
“Can she ride?” Kenly eyed the spare horse, saddled and ready for the absent messenger.
“As well or better than most men.” After he adjusted the gear for her far shorter height, of course. “Plus, she shoots as well as most men. Long gun preferably, though; she hasn’t had as much practice with a revolver.”
“In that case, I’ll loan her my old Henry.”
“Thank you, Kenly.” Gareth was genuinely touched. He didn’t have an extra gun to give Portia. But Baylor and Kenly could afford more gear, since they traveled with an experienced pack-horse.
“The last shot’s for her, of course, should we be caught by Apaches.” Baylor’s deep voice was as soft as the wind singing over a cemetery.
“No matter which of us administers the coup de grace,” Gareth agreed. No man wished that any woman he cared about—or even a female he loathed—should be taken alive by those savages. Mercy dictated a clean death, even if dealt by loved ones.
Without need for further words, the three men and one dog moved to make their final preparations. Daylight was fading faster than their chances of seeing Tucson while they were still alive.
Chapter Three
Three days later
Portia squirmed forward along the dusty ledge another half inch. Her heart drummed in her ears far louder than her boots shuffling against the hard rocks or her oversized shirt rubbing her skin. Her skin was the same reddish brown as the pebbles around them and her once-black hat now sagged into the murky shadows.
Gareth’s hand locked onto her wrist and squeezed.
She immediately froze, her head hugging the ground to avoid any unfriendly notice.
A heartbeat later, his fingers glided back to grip his rifle again.
She relaxed slowly, letting her muscles ease her body into the ground until she was part of Mother Earth and completely invisible to any watchers.
But deep inside, her heart was rapturously caroling Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. Perfectly rolling through every complicated harmony just as well as she’d arrived in position.
She, Portia Townsend, could sneak up a mountainside in Indian country better than most men. Gareth Lowell had first taught her how when she was twelve, so they could go fishing together on San Francisco Bay during the winter. He’d said she’d never crawl through mud to go fishing. He’d underestimated her hunger to spend time with him, not that she’d told him that, of course. Even then, she’d understood a lady didn’t tell the object of her affections everything.
One day she’d lay this close to Gareth in their marriage bed. After she grew up enough so he could respectably pay his attentions to her, of course. She’d known ever since she first saw him that he was hers alone.
He had to feel the same way because he was always willing to take her about with him, whenever he visited Uncle William’s house. Orphaned as he was and cursed with wanderlust, it was the only place he could call home.
Plus, he’d never walked out with any young ladies so she needn’t fear any rivals. Not that other hussies didn’t try to catch his eye.
He had black hair and silver-blue eyes set amid hard-edged angles and planes that could change into laughter at a moment’s notice or lock into implacable silences. He was clean-limbed and corded with a muscle like a warhorse, not an effete poet such as her classmates swooned over. He was her boon companion, even if they rarely told each other many secrets.
Gareth’s sleeve brushed her shoulder, bringing the rich scents of sweat and man and horse. But he said nothing, his attention totally fixed on the scene below and his rifle at his hand.
Portia hummed softly, almost drunk with intimacy.
She schooled her features into more sober lineaments. She should pay some heed to where they’d halt for dinner, instead of celebrating days adventuring with Gareth amid only the mild chaperonage provided by the former soldiers.
“How’s Tornado?” Baylor asked softly from her other side.
“Guarding the horses as you ordered,” Portia answered in a matching hoarse whisper. She doubted they could be heard from a yard away. “He’ll sound the alarm if he spots anyone.”
Baylor huffed his acceptance without looking at her, his attention entirely focused on the crags around them.
Portia allowed herself to shift a little closer to Gareth as a reward for doing so well. She’d obeyed his commands and stayed with the animals until she was sure they were settled. She’d even counted off the minutes, as he’d commanded, until she came forward to join the men, despite her dancing pulse.
Now she felt free to cautiously raise her head and see the first place where she’d have a long drink of water. Perhaps even wash her face, if Gareth would let them take some extra time to rest the horses.
The sun was setting in a violent haze of red and gold, sending purple and lavender shadows bursting across the mountains to her left. A box canyon spread below them, its steep walls permitting easy entry only from the north. Golden sands spilled across its broad base, while a few patches of silvery gray grass and trees bore witness to buried water.
They were lying on the southern cliff edge, in a hollow between giant boulders. The foothills’ jagged shadows crept across the little basin like a natural cloak, changing men and rocks into the same shifting panorama. Few hunters, if any, could have spotted any prey there.
Portia strained up onto her elbows, eager to see more of what lay ahead. Gareth had always found the best vantage points for watching their pursuers blunder past during their adventures.
A single thick plume of smoke lurched up to the sky from the ranch house in the center.
Two figures writhed on the ground on opposite sides of the empty paddock. Their hands and feet had been tied down to stakes but their bellies were still free to flail about—except for the flaming torch driven through a loop of each man’s intestines. Their outlines were brittle and ragged, charred from the fire which had taken their clothes and skin.
Portia drew breath to vent the scream ripping out her heart.
“Hush!” Gareth clamped his hand over her mouth faster than steel could strike sparks from flint. “It’s a trap.”
The scream faded but the horror remained branded into her very bones.
“But…” She shook her head but he tightened his grip.
A trap? It couldn’t be; nobody was down there except for those pitiful beings.
Her stomach lurched and she jolted into Gareth’s grasp once again. His silver eyes watched her, luminous as moonlight amid features harsher than a sword. A softer emotion flickered there briefly before his mouth twisted and settled back into its stern line.
One of the victims was whimpering, a broken little sound like a shattered violin.
Portia lay still, her heartbeat running faster than any sanity. Mother had been burned alive, her blackened skin tearing away anywhere and everywhere Portia touched her…
“Will you be quiet?” Gareth’s tone was more powerful for its blade-like stil
lness.
She nodded, ancient panic seeping into her bones despite the sun-baked rocks, and he silently released her.
“But the Apaches must be long gone,” she argued, trying not to look, or listen, or—dear God in heaven—smell anything from down below.
“This is a fresh attack, ma’am,” Baylor said softly from her other side. “It’d be just like those savages to leave a few braves behind to kill anybody who comes riding in, whether for water or to help.”
“More than one place to put an ambush,” agreed Kenly.
“It shouldn’t take too long to put the strongest man on my horse and the other one—”
“We’re arguing about how many Indians are near us, Portia, not if they are here.”
Stubbornness fired deep in her blood, the same fierce independence which had kept her going through all the bitter years in boarding school. Even if Gareth wouldn’t listen to her, this time, as he had on all their previous adventures, she had to continue arguing for the correct course of action.
“Besides, ma’am, they’re so close to death that they likely wouldn’t last the journey.” Baylor’s voice, unlike Gareth’s, was very gentle.
Even the best doctors couldn’t help patients who’d been burned, except to give them laudanum until they slept their way into Death’s arms.
She clenched her fists. There was one more deed they could do.
“We have enough water for the horses to reach Tucson,” Baylor mused.
“Plus one extra canteen,” Gareth agreed.
To take care of the fragile flower known as woman. Portia made up her mind.
“Or we can grant them a merciful end to their misery,” she stated firmly.
“Portia, didn’t you hear what I said?” Gareth lightly shook her by the shoulder. “There are Apaches here. Gunshots would surely summon them.”
“You could use your knife,” she suggested.
“I will not go down there and tell them we’re here. Besides, leaving would cut down on your protection,” he retorted.
“Ma’am, he’s right.” Kenly inserted himself into the argument.
The Devil She Knows Page 2
