Adrenaline pumped through Trish's veins. Her heart pounded, threatening to jump out of her chest, yet she stood firm. No man would take her virtue without a fight.
She turned her attack on Old Curly. He was on his knees, his eyes stunned, his right arm in the air as if to protect himself from her blows. Just think of his head as a tennis ball. She shuffled her feet on the uneven ground, took her stance and swung a beautifully executed backhand. Curly fell back. A strange ker-thunk whispered in the darkness. Both men lay motionless.
Trish stood still, surprised at her easy victory. Smoke from the campfire drifted toward her. The branch slipped from her fingers. Why had the man who ate her supper turned at the last minute? It was as if he'd wanted her to hit him. It took her a minute to absorb what she'd done. She could see by the campfire's dancing light that he was still breathing. She shuddered, willing the gruesome scene to depart. Remembering her need to escape, she knelt by the newcomer, hoping to find a knife to cut the rope off her wrists. She did her best to search him, her hands roaming across solid muscle, finding the empty sheath. Why would he have a sheath and no knife? She sat back on her heels and looked at him.
She'd sent his pale cowboy hat flying when she hit him and now she couldn't reach it to return it. A glimmer of guilt for robbing him of his cowboy appeal tickled her thoughts. No, he doesn't deserve my sympathy. He was going to help Curly rape me. Still, she couldn't keep herself from marveling at his wavy locks of dark brown hair and felt a jolt of attraction as his eyelashes appeared thick and long against tanned cheeks. His nose came to a gentle point, punctuating defining cheekbones and a strong jaw. He looked totally at ease with his mouth pleasantly relaxed. She resisted the impulse to twist her head and get closer. Where was his knife?
The fire crackled and spit as a log shifted, making her jump. She stood, trying to evaluate Old Curly from a distance. He lay in an awkward position with his legs tucked under him, his eyes open. Her gut twisted, bile rising in her throat. Was he dead? She dared to get closer but was jerked to a halt. The stranger laying on the rope was tethering her. Tugging at it, she pulled the rope free and stepped closer to Curly. The shaft of a knife stuck out of his chest, a pool of blood on his clothes and another dark puddle growing on the ground under his head. He had to be dead. She reached for the knife and pulled. It stuck firm. She turned away, her hands trembling.
Moments later, shuddering angst encompassed her whole frame. What had she done? Trish mentally shook herself, knowing she wasn't out of this mess yet, and forced herself to do what she must.
She turned back to the dead man, placing her foot on his chest. "I'm not --" She grasped the knife and gave it a firm tug. "Going --" Another tug. "To die out here with the likes of you."
The knife came free. She staggered back, almost falling into the fire. She returned to his body and wiped the knife on his coat. Her strength, driven by shear willpower, lagged as she stumbled over to the decaying log Curly had forced her to drag to the fireside. She sat with her back to his dead stare. Propping the knife between her feet, she worked at the cord securing her wrists. A sharp zing at her wrist warned her to work more carefully. At last, she was free. Trish examined her cut wrist in the flickering fire light. Where is that canteen?
Locating it behind the rock Old Curly had used to anchor her tether, she poured water on her cut. The cloth she'd used as a hot pad would have to do for a wrap. Piercing the cloth with the knife, she gave the fabric a savage yank to tear it. Using her teeth as well as her fingers from her injured limb, she managed to tie a rough bandage on her wrist. Her stomach grumbled.
Trish turned to regard the beans scattered in the dirt. The plate had landed right side up with a few beans still stuck to it. Nausea engulfed her. For the first time all day, she was grateful that her stomach was empty. The need to heave gave way to rumblings before shifting to shallow pangs.
She turned her attention on the newcomer. His knife had cut her free but it had also killed. She could see the shallow rise and fall of his muscled chest. She watched the firelight skip on his features. How long would he lay unconscious?
She carefully measured the knife to the sheath at his waist; an exact match. Had he turned and thrown the knife to protect her? She sat back and closed her eyes, trying to remember. It had happened so fast. One moment he was standing there, making those weird faces at her. Then he spun. She slammed the branch as hard as she could at his head, twice. Wait.
She stepped over him, retrieving his hat and setting it on his head. Maybe there had been a reason for the look he gave her and for the… She swallowed. What if he had been trying to communicate with her? Telling her something?
Trish took her hat off and did the best she could to comb her hair with her fingers. She would watch him and wait. His knife balanced on her knees. The fire burned low. She set the knife on a rock and added a log to the fire.
"Come on, hero. If you are a hero, wake up. I couldn't have hit you that hard." She shivered, knowing she'd hit Old Curly hard enough. She looked around, wondering where Old Curly left his bedroll. Locating it with his mule's pack, she stood to retrieve it. "Dang, I forgot how cold the canyons get at night. Curly, you dog, you better not have fleas or --"
"You always talk to dead men?"
Trish jumped and spun. She stared at him. When did he wake up?
"How do you know he's dead?"
The man chuckled, winced in pain and sat up. "You got a wicked swing." He touched his head and grimaced.
Curly's rifle lay with the rest of the gear still with the pack. Trish grabbed it, pointing it at the newcomer. He glanced at her but continued to check his head for blood. "You should at least trust me now. I could have killed you or at least let Old Curly have his way with you. Put the rifle away before you kill somethin'."
"Trust you? Why should I? How do I know you were trying to help me, and not just get Curly out of the picture?"
"Are you slow? Is that why he had you all trussed up like a steer?"
Trish kept the gun pointed his direction. She had no idea whether or not it was loaded. She reached for the bedroll, rolling it up her leg to get it under her arm. "I'm not slow, and you haven't answered my question."
"The old goat's dead or you wouldn't be free." He glanced at the body before his gaze focused on his knife several feet away. "Ya gonna let me have my knife back?"
She moved to the knife, planting her foot on it.
"Hmm--" He pressed his fingers to his lips, checking for blood. She watched him roll his tongue around his teeth. "Busted one of my teeth, too."
She smiled. She'd done better than expected. "Looks like you won't be taking advantage of a shanghaied woman. I ought to press charges against you for being an accessory."
He grimaced, pulling his head back. "What's with the high fa-lutten words? Ya from back East somewhere's? I ain't heard that kind of gibberish since I was a youngster." He settled back against a rather large, downed tree and relaxed, his knees flexed and his arms draped across his thighs.
A wolf howled in the distance sending a shiver up her spine. How close was it? Would it be safe to travel alone? Through this canyon in the dark? The possibilities raced across her mind. Although she would be considered a city girl in this era, she knew enough to know the answers to her questions. Too close, no, and no. The wolf howled again as if finalizing her decision. A choice she didn't want to make.
"I tell you what. You haul dead Old Curly away from here and I'll share the fire with you," she bargained.
"Tell you what. We leave Old Curly where he is. Put our bedrolls on this side of the fire and let the wolves have him tomorrow while we mosey on down the canyon."
"I'm not sleeping near a dead body." She cringed. Did I really kill a man? No, I could never even hurt a man… but I had this time.
He almost smiled. "Put 'im out in the cold and invite the wolves to dinner, eh? Or maybe you plan to fight the pack off yourself. Either way, the wolves'll have dinner. I'm thinkin' I'll stay right here, near the fire and p
ut the vittles out for 'em when we leave at daybreak."
She stared at him, relaxing her grip on the rifle. "Yeah, but can I trust you?"
In one fluid motion, he sprung to his feet, grabbed his knife and held it to her throat. Trish froze. He held her against him, his blade centimeters from her neck for several minutes before releasing her. He stepped away into the darkness. Her knees nearly buckled, and her whole body trembled.
"If I was gonna help Old Curly or hurt ya, ya couldn't a stopped me. Settle your roll by the fire an' I'll check the horses. Just don't shoot me when I come back."
She stared after him as he disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 5
The Talisman - Crisscross Page 4
