Atlanta

by Sara Orwig

  She bit back the scream that tore at her throat. Don’t frighten Michael! Don’t scream! She struggled and kicked tugging at the arm around her waist. He spun her around to yank her up hard against his solid body. The man looked down at her, the faint smell of tobacco on his breath.

  “We’ve got to get the boy back,” he said in a low, deadly voice. “The killer is out there. Call Michael and tell him to come here.”

  She shook with rage, still kicking at her captor, trying to bite him. Her feet were knocked out from under her, and she fell, her breath going out. He was on her in an instant, straddling her, pinning her hands over her head.

  Enraged and frustrated, she glared at him.

  “Call the boy.”

  She would summon Michael from one danger to another. She couldn’t trust any of these men sent to find her. All of them wanted to kill her, and take Michael back to Wenger.

  “Get him back, you little fool, he’s in terrible danger,” the man whispered.

  “Then you’ll take him.”

  He thrust the muzzle of his pistol at her throat. She gasped as it jammed against her.

  “Call him to come here now or you’ll never live to see what happens to him. Do you want him to stand there and watch me shoot you?”

  Her heart thudded in terror as she gazed up. The man’s face was hidden in the shadows, but there was no mistaking the coldness in his voice. Tears of frustration and fear stung her eyes. “Michael! Michael, come here now,” she called reluctantly. “Please don’t hurt him.”

  She heard a rustle and the man’s head went up. He glanced back at her, pressing the muzzle tighter, making her gag.

  “You do anything you shouldn’t and you’re dead,” he said quietly, his voice filled with conviction. In one lithe movement he released her, stood up, and swept Michael into his arms.

  “Tell him not to struggle,” he ordered.

  “Michael, do as he says,” she said, coughing and rubbing her raw throat. She looked up in hatred at the tall man holding Michael. She wanted to leap on him and claw his eyes and try to get his gun and kill him!

  The man’s face was hidden in shadows by a broad-brimmed black hat. His clothing was black and he wore leather gloves, and she could imagine how easily he had slipped up on them. Michael’s eyes were wide, and she hurt to see him frightened.

  “Put him down!”

  “No. As long as I’m holding him, the man after you won’t dare shoot. He’s after Michael too. Get in the wagon.”

  She stood up, clutching the front of her dress as she hurried to climb into the wagon. The man tethered his horse to the wagon swiftly, climbed onto the seat, and yanked up the reins, sliding Michael between them.

  He yelled and snapped the whip. With a lurch the bay sprang forward. The man urged the horse to a gallop, and they rocked violently on the rutted trail. Alarmed, she clutched the wagon with one hand and grabbed Michael with the other.

  They had been captured by a madman who would kill them all. Her wagon was meant only for light hauling, never built to travel like this. Branches hanging down over the trail scraped the sides of the wagon. The man drove as though crazed, and they went careening along the rough trail, his horse galloping behind.

  “Mama?”

  “It’s all right, honey,” she said, leaning close to speak into his ear. “Whatever happens, they won’t hurt you. And we’ll watch for a chance to get away. If I tell you, you move, just like you did tonight.” She glanced at the man hunched over, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the sky, and she remembered the feel of his hard body, the solid muscles, the strength of him as he held her. He was going to take Michael from her.

  “Oh, Michael,” she said, fighting back tears, and hugging him. “I love you. Whatever happens, don’t ever forget, I love you more than anything on earth.”

  “I love you,” he said, holding her tightly. She stroked him, running her hand over his thick curls. She glanced around. They couldn’t jump. It was too dangerous. The wagon careened around a turn, swinging wide, and she fell against Michael and the man. As she straightened up at once, a branch swiped at her face.

  “Mama! We’re going to turn over!”

  “You’re going to kill us!” she shouted. If the man heard her, though, he didn’t heed her words.

  His horse still galloped close behind the wagon, lather covering its neck, its dark mane streaming out behind it as it ran. Her horse couldn’t keep up this pace much longer. Another turn came and she was thrown in the opposite direction. The wagon rumbled partway off the trail, weeds and branches whipping against it.

  Was the other killer after them? she wondered. What would this man do with her? She stared at the driver’s broad shoulders, remembering his harsh voice. A chill went down her spine. He would kill her without a qualm.

  Too much of Michael’s life had been spent running. The war years had been the only reprieve, yet life in the West was hard and dangerous. If she escaped this time, she would take Michael and head north. The bigger the city, the safer she would feel.

  If she escaped …

  She wondered how she was going to get away from this man. Any minute he was going to wreck the wagon, and if she survived being thrown, she might be able to get Michael and slip away. Pray the driver was killed if the wagon overturned.

  He tugged on the reins and slowed a fraction. She raised her head and caught him looking at her for a moment before his gaze shifted to Michael. The stranger gestured with his hand. “Son, you may ride in the back of the wagon now if you want.”

  Michael looked up at her and she nodded, thinking he might be safer if anyone ambushed them again. Michael climbed back obediently and huddled on a quilt.

  She looked at the driver and saw he was watching her. Moonlight revealed the lower part of his face, his mouth set in a grim line, a strong jaw. He glared at her, and she blinked. He looked as if he could close his hands around her throat and squeeze the breath from her lungs without a qualm.

  “Stop fighting me. You and Michael are in danger,” he whispered.

  “Mama? I want you to come back here too.”

  “It’s all right, Michael. Get your quilt and lie down and try to go back to sleep.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is he always so docile?”

  “What do you want? A ferocious beast like you?”

  “Dammit.” The man frowned at her. “We have to slow down for the sake of the horses. Don’t give me trouble. I can get rid of you in a blink of the eye, but he wants you here, so as long as you cooperate, you stay. But don’t give me trouble of any kind.”

  “You filthy bastard,” she whispered.

  “You better watch for the killer. I want to get away from him.”

  “He can catch us easily. A wagon isn’t difficult to follow.”

  “Right, except he’s hit in the arm. I saw that.”

  The man sat tall, his broad shoulders tapering to slim hips. He wore a gun belt, and she saw the grip of his revolver on his hip, only a little over a foot away from her. If she lunged against him, could she get the pistol? If she failed, he might kill her and toss her from the wagon. Should she try or not? The revolver was big, far larger than her tiny derringer. She would have to yank it out of the holster. She glanced up from the gun on his hip to find him watching her.

  “Don’t try for my gun,” he said, so low she was sure Michael couldn’t hear. “Michael needs you, and you’ll get hurt.” The stranger spoke softly, yet that cold voice sounded more threatening than any man she had ever dealt with. She studied the stranger’s profile and locked her fingers together. This one seemed deadly and intelligent, a combination that terrified her. The only hope was that he wanted to keep Michael safe, and he was willing to keep her alive for Michael’s sake as long as she cooperated. She looked at his masculine jaw, the straight nose that gave him an arrogant air. Perhaps he was just telling her he wouldn’t kill her so she would cooperate until he could win Michael’s acceptance. Then he wouldn’t
need to bother with her.

  They were going slow enough now that she could jump from the wagon without too much danger, but she couldn’t leave Michael. She glanced over her shoulder. Would there be some way to tell him to jump?

  He lay curled on the quilt, his head on his arm, his eyes closed, and her hopes sank. He was asleep. She couldn’t signal to him at all.

  “Don’t think of grabbing the kid and running,” a gruff voice said in the darkness, startling her.

  How could he guess what was in her mind? She looked up at him, thinking about the savings she had banked since she first ran away with Michael.

  “Let us go. Please. Whatever Wenger is paying you, I’ll pay you more.”

  “You wouldn’t have that much money,” the man answered dryly, turning his head to look at her again.

  “Name your price.”

  He studied her. “Five million in gold.”

  She gasped. “Wenger couldn’t be paying you that! That would be a ransom for a king!”

  Fortune tried to keep a curb on his rage toward her. All he could think was this woman had taken his child and kept Michael all these years. Because of her, he would never know Michael as a baby. He wanted to lock his fingers around her soft throat and shout in anger what she had taken from him.

  He had to get his emotions under control. Harwood was fast and deadly, and he wouldn’t be far behind. Fortune didn’t think the shot in the arm would slow a dead-eyed killer like that very much. Fortune’s back prickled, and he glanced over his shoulder. If Harwood caught up with them, he wouldn’t stand any more of a chance than Eisner had.

  He glanced down at the sleeping boy, and some of the tension left him. Michael was a beautiful, obedient child. Too docile, but that could change. When he had picked him up, he had wanted to crush him to his heart and just hold him and tell Michael who he was. He turned his attention back to the road and flicked the reins, urging the horse to a trot. They had to keep moving, and he had to keep his wits about him.

  He glanced again at the woman, feeling anger burn every time he looked at her. What had all this running done to Michael? From the way he had reacted to her commands, he was accustomed to this, and it had to be hard on him. Did he live in constant fear? Was that why he was such a docile child?

  Fortune clamped his jaw closed, his fists knotting as he held the reins. He inhaled deeply, trying to relax. They needed to get off the Trace. They could be so easily ambushed on this road. Plus, he needed to rest. He had ridden hard, only dozing in the saddle the last three nights so he could catch up with Eisner. And it terrified him to think how close he had come to missing them.

  Where was Harwood? Was he already galloping after them?

  While they rode in silence, Claire anxiously shifted on the seat as she tried to think what to do. When they stopped to camp, she had to watch for a chance to escape. A tide of exhaustion filled her and she fought against it, knowing she had to stay alert.

  “I need to stop. I have to relieve myself.”

  He drew on the reins. “Hurry up. I have the boy. And don’t wander far. If Harwood gets you, I’ll let him keep you.”

  She climbed down and hurried behind a bush, her mind racing for some way to get Michael. If she shouted for him, he might not even wake and he would never escape. The man was too quick and too strong. In the end, she climbed back on the front seat, and they drove on.

  Several hours before dawn, they rode into Vicksburg. The stranger went straight to a livery stable to leave the wagon. As he unfastened his saddlebags and placed them over his shoulder, she wondered what made the bags bulge. Could he have another revolver in one?

  He lifted Michael up carefully and paused to look at her. “Don’t try anything while I’m carrying him. When we get inside the hotel lobby, you go stand by the stairs to wait for me. I don’t want the clerk to be able to give a good description of us.”

  She could agree with that, because Harwood was still after them. “Why are we stopping here? Wouldn’t we be safer riding on and camping somewhere?”

  “No. I need some sleep, and he’ll be less likely to attack us in a hotel room than out on the Trace.”

  They entered the quiet hotel lobby. The clerk was asleep behind the desk, and after giving him a glance, she moved toward the stairs. She blinked in the brightness of the lamp light and turned to look at the man who held them captive.

  His tall frame and straight back, the slight thrust of his broad shoulders with each step, gave him an air of command. Dressed in a leather vest, white shirt, and denim trousers, he crossed the lobby of the hotel as if he owned the place. She studied his profile as he stopped at the desk. The masculine jaw and straight nose only added to the air of arrogance and self-assurance. His skin was brown, as if he spent a lot of time in the sun. The gun belt hung low on his slender hips, and her gaze drifted down his long legs to his dusty black boots.

  He cleared his throat, and the clerk came to his feet. As soon as he asked what he could do, Michael stirred. The man set him carefully on his feet, holding his hand to keep him steady, and she noticed how gentle he was with Michael. With wide eyes Michael looked around. When he spotted her, she smiled, wanting to reassure him that he was safe.

  She stood by the stairs and watched them. The man’s deep voice was too low to hear. Nodding, the clerk bustled about, getting a key, motioning to a boy to carry her portmanteau, summoning drowsy help to fetch a tub and hot water. A bath. She drew a deep breath, her fury stirring again at the thought of their captor ordering a bath. She didn’t want to share a hotel room with a naked man! He crossed to her, and his fingers closed on her arm. She glanced up to meet his gaze, for the first time looking at him clearly in the light.

  His eyes were a startling crystal blue, like spring water in a mountain stream. That blue was intense, filled with such burning anger she drew a deep breath.

  “Let’s go,” he said. When she attempted to yank her arm from his grasp, his fingers tightened painfully. She turned to climb the stairs to the second floor. He held her arm firmly as they followed the clerk, who opened the door to a suite.

  She stepped inside and paused, startled by the lavishness of the place. Not since she had run away from home had she been in such elegant surroundings. The extravagance was appalling. For the past six years she had counted every penny, and the stranger was wasting an incredible amount on this suite. For what this one night would cost, she and Michael could live for two months. She faced the man and found he was watching her.

  “We don’t need all this! Good heavens, it’ll cost you a fortune!”

  He arched his brow. “A woman who thinks I’m spending too much money?”

  “This is frivolous,” she said, looking around, crossing the room to run her fingers across a marble-topped table. “For what this costs, you could stay a year in a comfortable room.”

  They fell silent as two porters appeared with a copper tub. “Place it in the bedroom,” the man said, waving his hand. Another brought a tray with glasses and a pitcher of water.

  “Mama, this is fancy,” Michael said in awe, running his small fingers across the silk settee. He touched a crystal vase and turned to look at the man, who was watching him with a strange, fierce expression that softened the moment Michael glanced up at him.

  “You can touch that, Michael,” he said in such a gentle voice, she stared in surprise. And then the porters left, and her thoughts shifted as the man shed his coat.

  “Michael, come with me. I’ll help you wash.”

  Michael glanced at her, and she nodded. “It’s all right.”

  The man crossed the room with Michael, and she looked for a weapon. While he was gone, she might find some way to get an advantage. At the door to the bedroom, the man paused.

  “Go on, Michael. Undress and get in the tub. I want to say a word to”—there was the slightest pause—“your mother, and then I’ll be there.”

  Michael did as he was told, and the man closed the door, turning to her. He untied a
neckerchief from around his neck and approached her. Suddenly she wondered if he was going to strangle her.

  “I didn’t want to alarm him. I’m tying you up while we bathe.”

  “Please reconsider. You’re taking him to a cruel man.”

  “How the hell do you know whether he’s cruel or not?”

  The stranger yanked up a straight-back wooden rocker and set it down beside her. “Sit down,” he commanded.

  “Who are you?”

  He gave her a stony look, clamping his mouth shut, a muscle working in his jaw, and she bit back another question.

  She glared at him, her heart racing. She had to try to escape, and now seemed as likely as any time. She lunged at him, grabbing for his gun, hoping to knock him down and get the weapon.

  It was liked knocking down a tree. She hit a solid body that didn’t yield an inch. Arms closed around her, and she struggled, trying to bite him. As they grappled, the knot at the neck of her dress came untied. He tossed her down in the chair, caught her wrists, and held them high over her head, sidestepping her efforts to kick him.

  Stepping behind the chair, be brought her arms down behind the chair and tied them. She gasped in frustration and anger, panting from the exertion, feeling her arms pulled tightly, realizing for the first time that the neck of her dress gaped open and her breasts were exposed.

  “This will alarm Michael!”

  “I wasn’t going to truss you up so tightly, but you’ve given me little choice.” The man’s voice was quiet, yet it was laced with unmistakable fury. He stepped in front of her. His hat was still on his head, his hands on his hips. He stood close, his narrow hips at eye level. She looked up to see a fiery expression, his mouth in a firm line, his gaze on her breasts.

  She burned with embarrassment, steeling herself for his touch as the other man had. His hand reached out, and he caught the ends of her dress. Swiftly he knotted it again, his knuckles just brushing her flesh.

  Startled, she looked at him. “I’ll get you a needle and thread tomorrow, and you can sew that up.”