by BJ James
Patrick gripped the cup as if it were a lifeline, but didn’t raise it to his lips. “There’s not a lot to tell, that’s the damnable part in this.”
“Then tell what there is to tell. Begin with where and how.”
Rafe would not give up, and, Patrick realized, would not let him give up. Drawing a long shuddering breath, he nodded. And, beneath the burden of his grief, shone the first glimmer of the return of the invincible Scot. “Jordana was taking Courtney to her morning dance class. A sort of motherdaughter day for them.”
“Who was driving?”
“Ian, of course.”
“Of course,” Rafe expected that it would be Ian. It would have been unlikely anyone but the wizened Highlander, who had driven for the McCallums for years, would be entrusted to chauffeur Patrick’s blind wife and his only daughter. His precious treasures.
“Was he injured?”
“He was dazed by the impact, and he’ll be a little sore for a while, but nothing more.”
“What did he see?” Intent, intense, Rafe leaned forward. “What can he tell us?”
“There was very little time to see anything. He was just turning onto the highway from the ranch when they were broadsided by a car hidden and waiting in a service road.”
“Jordana’s side taking the brunt of the impact,” Rafe ventured the obvious.
As if he didn’t hear, Patrick’s voice droned on, relating the little he knew. “Three things happened almost consecutively. Ian unlocked the doors of the car and dashed to the back passenger’s side, to Jordana. A passenger in the other vehicle bailed out and ran, leaving the driver who had not survived. While Ian was at the opposite side, a third accomplice ran from the underbrush. He grabbed Courtney from the back seat, shoved her into yet another hidden vehicle, and sped away. Presumably, with the one who escaped the crash and any one else who was involved.”
“Son of a bitch!” Grave and troubled, Rafe’s voice was strained. As he thought of his namesake, how tiny she was at four years, how frightened she would be, his look was laced with venom. “When did the ransom note arrive? How?”
“It didn’t arrive, Rafe. It was left on the seat where Courtney sat.”
“Planned down to the last hellish detail, with nothing left to chance.” There was fire blazing in the normally cool Creole as he asked, bitterly, “How much?”
Patrick lifted a stricken gaze. “Not a penny.”
Cold dread, gathering like a sickness in him, marked the harsh quirk of Rafe’s lips. “Then what? And, damn their souls, why? Who are they? What do they want?”
“Why and what they want was outlined in excruciating detail in the note. Courtney was taken by members of a radical group that calls itself Apostles for a Better Day. She was chosen because of my friendship with Jim Brigman, and what they perceive as my prominence and political influence because he’s governor.” The Scot’s face grew grimmer, paler, in startling contrast to the dark auburn of the curling, shaggy mane that framed it. “In exchange for my daughter they’ve demanded that, by that influence, I arrange and expedite the release of their leader from death row.”
“Death row!” Shock upon shock levied its toll on an unprepared Rafe. “They must be out of their collective minds. Who is this man? What the hell is he?”
“A mad dog,” Patrick said levelly. “A mad dog who calls himself Father Tomorrow and who kills in the name of his cause without a qualm.”
“Zealots!” Rafe’s decree was accompanied by a string of heated epithets. “Fanatics who twist whatever religion and whatever doctrine they espouse to accommodate themselves. The most deadly and unpredictable element in society.”
Pushing away his cup and kicking back the chair too small for his bulk, Patrick lurched to his feet. Despite the vicious motion, helplessness and defeat were apparent in every line of his body. “I’ve spoken with Jim.”
Something in his look and tone chilled Rafe even more. “And?”
“No go.” Arms crossed over his chest, his back to the lounge, Patrick glared out a window at a night as black as his thoughts. “A proven killer can’t be released. Even if there was a question of guilt, the man is unstable and too dangerous. Granting his freedom would be tantamount to unleashing a monster. Jim has pledged his help in any way possible, but he dares not turn such an unconscionable creature loose on the public.” His arms crossed tighter, his fingers crumpled the fabric of his shirt. “Not for Courtney. Not for anyone.
“I could give them millions, castles, islands.” There were tears on Patrick’s face, but he made no effort to wipe them away. “An empire is theirs for the asking, with not one regret for its loss. Yet, with all I have, I can’t give what they’ve demanded. The one thing that would free my little girl.”
“All right. If we can’t give them what they want for Courtney, we do it the hard way. We take her back without it.” Rafe would not waste another thought on bitter recriminations, or sympathy that Patrick neither wanted nor needed. He addressed the crux of the situation instead. “How much time do we have?”
“We had five days.”
“Had?”
“Tomorrow marks the beginning of the last three.”
Glancing at his watch, discovering, for the first time in his concern, that tomorrow had become today, Rafe said nothing.
“We know where Courtney’s being held.”
Patrick’s wooden statement shattered Rafe’s calm demeanor as nothing else. “What the hell? You know where she is? How?”
“The Apostles made no effort to cover their tracks. Their trail was so obvious, it was thought to be a ruse in the beginning. Then it became apparent they wanted us to know, and to understand how impossible rescue would be.”
“Where is she, Patrick?” Rafe asked directly, his tone calm but savage.
“The men who took Courtney were tracked into the high desert north of Sedona by a specially trained unit of rangers called in by the governor. At some point she was handed over to one man, who took her the rest of the way to a mountain. Hell!” Patrick slammed a fist on the table. “It’s worse than a mountain. It’s a monstrous aberration among aberrations. A spike of land as barren as the devil’s own, and no one can climb it without being seen.”
The trilling burr of Scotland was thick in Patrick’s diatribe, recalling the lush and craggy highlands of his homeland. A land he loved only a bit more than the land he decried in the extremity of distress. “The surrounding terrain and the old miner’s shack at its peak constitute a veritable fortress.” The growling trill grew more pronounced. “A natural, impregnable stronghold.”
“You were intended to believe rescue is impossible, but is it? Is anything truly impregnable? There’s always a way, and we’ll find it, Patrick. There lies our hope.”
“Maybe.”
The Scot turned stiffly toward the door of the softly lit suite, and something in his manner told the man who knew him so well that way had already been found. Rafe waited, biding his time.
“Maybe there is a way.” Patrick’s head moved from side to side, bemused, dejected. “But I can’t leave Jordana. If she’s aware at all and I’m not here, she’ll know something terrible is wrong. The stress might be all that’s needed to...”
With a hand at Patrick’s wrist, Rafe stopped the anguish of a man torn between two loves. “You see to Jordana, I’ll do what’s needed to bring Courtney home.”
“You can’t.” The answer came quickly, flatly. “There are circumstances and conditions you don’t understand. For once, Rafe, even you can’t do the impossible. But Simon has someone who can, someone he’s sending. Our last resort.” Patrick turned again to the window, stared again, blindly, into the darkness. But in his mind there were barren, ragged peaks shrouded by the night. “Our one chance. Our only hope.”
“Then I’ll help Simon’s man bring her home,” Rafe promised.
Though Patrick spoke of hope, there had never been such melancholy in his voice. Not when he was thirteen, deserted by his faithless m
other, failed by his grieving father and consigned to exile in a strange school, in a strange country. Lost and alone among a strange people, he had not been like this. Not even the ultimate death of his father wreaked such suffering upon him. Silently Rafe vowed he would take away the pain, and give back the hope—along with the littlest McCallum.
“Three days, Patrick,” he murmured hoarsely. “I promise.”
“You won’t do anything irrational?” What Patrick left unspoken was his wish that if the impossible were truly that, if one tragedy, or two, were inevitable, there needn’t be a third.
“No more than you would.” A crooked grin lifted the corner of Rafe’s mouth, but left his eyes unchanged. As Patrick had been before his marriage, the Creole was an accomplished sportsman and adventurer. There was little he hadn’t tried, little he hadn’t dared. When time and McCallum International permitted, his idea of relaxing was to battle the elements in one form or another. This time, in a life or death struggle, the stakes would be higher—a life other than his own.
“I promise to do no more and no less than you would, my friend,” Rafe mused softly. “In the same circumstance.”
For a moment their eyes met and held. Patrick nodded, slowly, grimly, and on that understanding returned to his seat.
Less than a quarter hour later, strategy outlined, each lurid detail and fact branded on his mind, Rafe left Patrick. In the next three days, while the Scot fought for the life of his wife, the Creole would go to the mountains, to fight in his stead.
Rafe Courtenay would go to do battle for the life of the beloved daughter of his chosen brother. For his own namesake. For his godchild.
For Courtney...the love of his warrior’s heart.
Three
The scene that greeted Rafe was alien, a surreal backdrop from a science fiction movie. Glaring yellow lights, falling on red rock and flying dust, lent an eerie sense of otherworldliness to the camp and its cluster of trucks and tents hunkered in the stark, rocky basin. He could, he thought, just as easily be looking down on the landscape of Mars as the high desert of Arizona.
When he dropped to the ground, waving the hovering helicopter bearing the logo of McCallum International back into the night sky, he knew no place had ever been more real. Nothing he’d ever done as important
“Mr. Courtenay, sir.” The shout of the young man, who addressed him from the edge of a boil of orange fog, could barely be heard above the whine of the chopper’s engine.
Ducking, small backpack in hand, Rafe dashed from the whipping lash of the revving rotors. As he approached, the young ranger smiled briefly and took the bag from him. “Glad you could make it, sir.”
His handshake was firm, his uniform amazingly neatly pressed into smooth surfaces and sharp creases. Only his face was rumpled from lack of sleep. The tag clipped to the breast pocket of his shirt confirmed he was Joe Collins, a second before he introduced himself.
“I’ve been assigned to serve as your liaison, to familiarize you with the camp and procure whatever else you feel you need,” he continued as he escorted Rafe to his tent. As they passed by, busy people, dressed as Joe was dressed, with faces as strained and harried, acknowledged the newcomer. With only a nod or wave of greeting they returned to the work that engrossed them.
“As you will see, sir,” Joe said as he stopped by one in a line of smaller tents, “we have an excellent Search and Rescue team. But this is a little beyond our field of expertise.”
The last was said apologetically. Rafe responded succinctly, “This is a little beyond anyone’s field of expertise, Ranger Collins.”
“Yes, sir. Thank God.”
“Indeed,” Rafe agreed as he scanned the camp again, noting the propitious arrangement, the equipment, including detailed maps spread over a bevy of tables near a powerful radio. Parked at one side were a half dozen all-terrain vehicles that had seen hard and recent use. Opposite, and set a little apart, was a small remuda. He slanted a questioning look at his guide. “Horses?”
“Yes, sir. A good portion of the terrain we’ve covered is accessible only by horseback. Some of it too bad even for them. Even in relays.” Setting down the bag, he shrugged, a move at odds with his perfect posture. “The gun who was brought in thinks at least part of what we walked and climbed can be crossed by a horse. A particular horse. A stallion trucked in just before you arrived.”
“What horse would that be?” Interest stirred, Rafe waited for his answer.
“Black Jack, from The Broken Spur.”
Feeling the first real frisson of encouragement since he’d seen the desolation around him, Rafe nodded his approval. Black Jack was a magnificent creature of no little reputation among horsemen and breeders such as Patrick. The stallion had made news by accomplishing the unthinkable more than once, and only a rider of incomparable skill could handle him. “If this gun, as you call him, knows his stuff as well as he knows his horses, maybe we have a chance to make this work.”
“Maybe.” The answer was noncommittal, but the look Joe Collins shot at Rafe was edged with surprise.
“You were right about your Search and Rescue team. From what Patrick told me nothing has been left undone. But now there is one more thing I’ll required.” Taking a pen and small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, Rafe scribbled a name and telephone number. “Call this number, ask for Tyree.” Tearing the page from the notebook he handed it to Collins. “Tell him I need El Mirlo immediately, then give him specific directions to the camp.”
“Yes, sir.” Collins jumped to attention, Rafe half expected he would salute. “El Mirlo. The Blackbird.” There was awe in the younger man’s tone as he translated the Spanish name of the horse nearly as distinguished as Blackjack. “I’ll see to it right away.”
“One more thing before you go.” Scanning the task force, Rafe detained the ranger with those few short words before he could race away. “The gun, where is he?”
Joe Collins gave him the same odd look he had before, a light flush staining his cheeks. “She, sir,” he managed at last, as if he weren’t sure how his answer would be received. Taking a fold of papers from a hip pocket he offered them to Rafe. “I was instructed to give you this, a dossier explaining who she is.”
Halting in the act of slipping the notebook back in his jacket, Rafe took the papers from him, tucking them away, as well, without a glance. His narrow look swept over the ranger, pinning him in place. “She?”
“Yes, sir.” Another uneasy shrug. “We thought you knew.”
“Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Courtenay?”
Rafe’s turn was slow, measured, the gaze that only seconds ago had held the ranger in place, swept over the woman who stood a half dozen paces away. And though there was no reason to think he’d ever seen her before, nor any woman resembling her, he was struck by a strong sense of déjà vu. A sensation to be explored later, rather than now, as he turned his undeterred regard on her.
Instead of the common uniform, she was in civilian dress. Boots, jeans, Western shirt, the customary Stetson. He noted she wore a holstered Colt belted at her hip, and no spurs on her boots.
“You move very quietly,” he observed softly as he finished his perusal.
“What you mean is I move very quietly, for a woman.” There was no rancor in her voice. One look warned she had little time or patience with petty angers.
“What I meant,” Rafe replied patiently, “is what I said. You move very quietly, for anyone.”
A slight bow afforded him the point. “Should I say thank you?”
“You don’t strike me as a woman who would waste her breath on false platitudes.”
She chuckled quietly, the humor genuine, giving him another point. “Just how do I strike you, Mr. Courtenay?”
Rafe was not surprised that she knew him. The camp as a whole had been informed by Patrick that he was coming, and what he would expect. “That would require some thought and consideration.”
The laugh again, low, smoky. In the
right place, the right circumstance, a little sexy. “Of course,” she agreed. “But you’re a quick study, aren’t you, Mr.—”
“Rafe. From you, I prefer Rafe.”
“If you like.” By her manner she told him his name was of so little consequence at the moment, she would call him George, if he liked. “Now, Rafe.” She moved a step closer. “About that quick study.”
Letting her feel the weight of his scrutiny, he took her measure slowly, with a piercing thoroughness. Another woman might have flinched or blushed, facing such total invasion of her person. But not this one. He liked that, found it challenging, as he drew his study out more than was needed. After a long, long moment, in which Joe Collins’s gaping attention bounced like a racket ball between them, Rafe’s gaze returned to settle on her face.
“All done?” She stood with her hands at her hips, her feet apart, her chin jutted an unmistakable fraction.
“For now.” A cryptic answer, drawing little reaction. She was a cool one.
Her head tilted a bit, a brow lifted. “Well?”
“Do you want the particulars?”
“However you like it, Mr. Courtenay.”
“Rafe,” he reminded.
“Rafe,” she parroted in droll concession.
Silence fell like a gauntlet. Joe Collins stared and waited. Rafe was first to react. “All right,” he mused, tugging the tie he hadn’t taken time to remove down another notch. “The particulars, as I see them. You’re five-five, without the boots, and weigh, maybe, one fifteen with them. Shoulder-length hair. Dark brown, if not black, maybe with a hint of red in sunlight. On a bet, a little unruly at times. Tied, at the moment, with whatever was handy. On the trail, I suspect it will be tucked under the Stetson.”
He waited for the slight acknowledging bow of her head then resumed a concise cataloging of her features. “Oval face, high cheekbones. Fine-textured skin, a tint that suggests it tans easily and rarely bums. A nose with a slight deviation. From a break, I would surmise. Brows, arched and fine, dark as night.
“Your eyes...” He paused only to draw a breath. “In this garish light I can’t say, but too dark for blue or gray, too pale for true brown. Possibly the color of old sherry?” It was a question that begged no answer as he moved on to finer, surer points. “A belligerent chin that telegraphs your moods, and a mouth made for smiling.”
