Reluctant Enemies

by Vivian Vaughan

  But the look in his eyes revealed the truth. He loved her. He didn’t seem very comfortable with the fact, but he loved her. That was all right. She could make him comfortable with it later. For now she was content knowing that she had succeeded beyond all her expectations.

  By a stroke of sheer luck, she had performed some ancient, magical miracle and Will Radnor had fallen in love with her. The realization empowered her in a way that was unexpected. Rather than feeling driven by some inner force that shouted, HURRY! HURRY! HURRY! she was content to sit back and allow herself to savor her success. She had time, now. They had time. Time for everything.

  Later they could resolve whatever remained unresolved, because Will Radnor loved her. He had admitted it. Right out loud.

  By the time they worked their way around the hillside, crossing the canyon by a narrow gorge overgrown with juniper, the afternoon was well under way.

  “He’s on top of this hill,” she whispered.

  Will nodded. “We’ll stake the horses in that thicket over there.” Dismounting, he handed her his reins, then rifled in his saddlebags for shells, which he dropped into his pockets. “Sit tight, Miss Priss. I’ll be right back.”

  She caught his sleeve. “Not on your life, greenhorn.”

  “It’s your life I’m worried about.”

  “So it’s a draw. I’m worried about yours. We go together.”

  “Now, Pris—”

  “Don’t Priscilla me. This calls for our best judgment, and I’m the one familiar with the country.”

  He glanced to the top of the hill. “I hardly think there’s a chance I can get lost in the next hundred feet.”

  Rifle shots crackled above them. “We’re wasting time.”

  “Then stay with the damned horses. I’ll be—”

  “Like hell, I will. Maybe I shouldn’t have worked so hard to make you fall in love with me. Maybe I don’t want to be hitched for life to someone who’s going to treat me like a…like a lady.”

  “Damnation, Priscilla.” Will extended his hands in appeal.

  She swept past him, dropping the reins of both her horse and his into his outstretched hands. “The name’s Jake.”

  She’d reached the crest by the time she heard him scramble up behind her. She turned a silencing frown to him, but waited for him to catch up.

  “He’s right up there,” she whispered. “Twenty, thirty yards, I’d say.” She grabbed a handful of rock and started to swing up.

  Will caught her. He hauled her down beside him. “For God’s sake, Priscilla,” he whispered. “One sound and he’ll shoot you. He probably isn’t expecting Annie Oakley to come to his rescue.”

  She huffed. He was right, of course. “Any suggestions?”

  He held her gaze, as if to say, You need me, whether you’re willing to admit it or not. “We’ll have to disarm him, before we break the news that we’re friends. If it turns out we are friends.” Will glanced around. “You take the right, I’ll take left.”

  “Okay.”

  “Go slow, now. And remember we’re on the same team. No competition. I’ll give you the glory, so there’s no need to try to prove you’re the better man.”

  “Will!”

  He touched a finger to his lips. “I’ll count to three. We move out together.”

  She nodded.

  “One. Two.” Their gazes locked. She felt his love pour into her, his love and concern. “Quietly,” he reminded her.

  “You, too, greenhorn.”

  He winked. “Three.”

  Within seconds they were looking at each other from opposite sides of the boulder. Breaking eye contact, they scanned the area ahead of them. Priscilla focused her attention on the figure of a man in the brush. As in slow motion she heard Will’s rifle cock.

  The figure swerved at the sound, turning toward Will. Joaquín! “It’s me,” she called. “…and Will. We’ve come to help.”

  After a tense moment, Joaquín relaxed. The surprise on his face briefly mirrored welcome, then turned to indifference.

  “Who’s got you pinned down?” Will asked.

  “Haskels,” came the reply. “José Colorado brought word. I rode all night to find you. I’d almost given up.”

  “How many are out there?” Will asked.

  “Three. José watched them for a whole day, before he was sure. They didn’t come from town, but from Spanish Creek.

  “Spanish Creek?” Priscilla cried.

  “We knew they were there,” Will reminded her.

  “I hope Bart’s arrived.”

  Joaquín squinted off in the direction of the attackers. “Don’t worry your pretty blue eyes, little Miss Priss. Charlie’ll hold onto Spanish Creek for you.”

  Any response Will or Priscilla might have made to Joaquín’s familiar cynicism was checked when the hillside on which they stood suddenly flew apart.

  The sounds came afterward, shots whining through the stillness. Priscilla was scarcely aware of the barrage before Joaquín landed on top of her, forcing her to the ground. Will hit her from the other side. They collapsed in a heap on the rocky ground.

  Before the dust settled, Priscilla was struggling to free herself from the avalanche of concerned men.

  “Hey, the enemy’s out there.”

  The two men stared at each other, Joaquín with a harsh expression that defied Will to question his right to protect Priscilla; Will with equal possessiveness.

  When bullets again ripped through the shrubbery that served as their only cover now, Will scooted back. “We’d better get busy defending ourselves or we’ll be the ones needing the help of an old outlaw.”

  That statement proved prophetic, Priscilla thought later, for after a couple of hours spent exchanging fire, the Haskels showed no sign of giving up. From all indications, they were dug in for the long haul.

  “Oscar must want us pretty bad,” Will commented. Priscilla had taken one corner of the cliff, Joaquín the middle, and Will the opposite side.

  “I don’t think it’s Oscar, so much as it is Newt,” Priscilla argued. “We made him look real bad. Especially you, Will, and Joaquín, slipping out of the jail while he was…uh, what did you say they were doing, Will?”

  Will glanced her way at that, and she held his gaze for heated moments. A rifle shot splintered a branch in front of Joaquín.

  “Hey, you, two. If you’re not going to pay attention, get out of my way.”

  Priscilla scanned the opposite cliff and fired. A yelp splintered the air.

  “You hit one, cowboy.”

  “They’re moving.” Joaquín reloaded as he spoke.

  “Moving?” Priscilla peered into the growing shadow. “Which way?”

  Will fired. A rifle flew into the air, then fell to the ground.

  “That one was off to the right of their original position, by a good fifty yards,” Joaquín observed.

  Priscilla concentrated, searching the distant hillside for a color out of place, movement, a bird flushed out of its nest.

  Will suddenly fired once, twice, three times.

  “Now who’s wasting bullets?”

  He glanced at her. “I never waste bullets.”

  “So what were you shooting at?”

  “They’ve fanned out. That one was off to the left.”

  Hair bristled on Priscilla’s neck.

  “We’ve gotta get out of here,” Will told Joaquín. “Which way’s safest?”

  Joaquín didn’t respond for long minutes. He drew a bead with a steady hand, then started firing. He sprayed the canyon from the point at which Will had last, to where Priscilla had hit someone.

  With his shots still ringing down the canyon, he replied, “There’s no safe way.”

  “Well, we dang sure can’t stay here and wait for them to come after us.” Will looked pointedly at Priscilla. “Not with Priscilla along.”

  His concern heated a trail down Priscilla’s spine.

  “I’m not that coldhearted, white eyes.”

 
“Then damnit, find us a way out.”

  Shots rang out again, blasting dirt and bits of rock into them. Lifting her rifle, Priscilla returned the fire. “They’ll know we’re gone, the minute we stop returning their fire.”

  “Won’t take ’em long to figure it out,” Joaquín agreed.

  In answer to another round from the canyon, Will fired a round.

  “They’re blocking the trail we need to take,” Priscilla said. “We’ll never make it out.”

  “Yes, we will,” Will told her.

  Joaquín agreed with Priscilla. “Not to Spanish Creek.”

  “Then where?” Will demanded. “You know this area better than they do.” He added, less heatedly, “Surely.”

  Joaquín scowled at Will. “Surely I know something better than you, white eyes.”

  “We don’t have time for your cynicism, Joaquín. It’s up to us, you and me, to get Priscilla out of this alive.” He glared at Joaquín. “Even if we don’t.”

  “Will!”

  “He’s right, Jake. Now you’ve got two men to fight for you. If you’d known that would happen don’t reckon you’d’ve been so hungry to become the best shot in the territory. But of course that’s not the reason you did it. Couldn’t leave Charlie McCain without a son—just to prove who owns Spanish Creek.”

  “Where can we go?” Will interrupted.

  Joaquín eyed him. “You an’ Jake finished with your shootin’ match?”

  Will glared back at him. “We’re finished.”

  “Then we’ll go.”

  “Where’s your horse?”

  “Shot out from under me.”

  “Damnation.” Will cast his eyes heavenward. “What else is going to go wrong?” A second later, he added, “Take Priscilla’s horse. She’ll double with me.”

  Joaquín shrugged. “It’s your rain dance.”

  “Let’s get out of here before they turn it into a necktie party.”

  But Joaquín had the last say. “Go ahead. I’ll keep ’em busy while you two get the horses ready.”

  Priscilla followed Will down the steep slope. Behind her she heard Joaquín fire repeatedly into the canyon. The sun was beginning to set. It was time they got out of here. Her spine tensed at the thought of being caught by Haskels before they reached home.

  As it turned out, they didn’t go home. Not that night. Will and Priscilla were already mounted when Joaquín skidded into the thicket where they waited. He took one look at Priscilla’s horse with the buffalo hide lashed behind the saddle. “What’s this? You taking up wickiup building?”

  “It’s your mother’s liner.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I’m taking it to Spanish Creek for safekeeping.”

  Joaquín stood so still a bee lighted on his nose, then quickly darted away. After an intense moment, he ducked his head.

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. She knew what he was thinking. It was his history, too. Or it should be.

  Will nudged his horse into line behind Joaquín. They rode silently, tensed against an attack from behind. Priscilla sat in front of Will, shielded by his body. She settled back, leaned against him—the man she loved. The man who loved her. He’d said so. She was hard-put not to enjoy being in his arms, even under such grave circumstances.

  After they had traveled a distance, Will kicked his mount up beside Joaquín’s. “Where’re we headed?”

  “I think we can make it to the Kid’s.”

  “Billy the Kid?” Priscilla questioned.

  Joaquín turned her way, but in the shadows she couldn’t make out his expression. Of course, he only had one expression: cynical. When he laughed it surprised her.

  “You don’t believe the gossip, do you, Jake?”

  “That you ride with Billy the Kid?” she asked. “No.”

  After a while he responded, “You’re right. I don’t. But I know him. He hates the Haskels worse’n Charlie does. We can hole up there until we think of something better.”

  “How much trouble’ll we have protecting Priscilla from those outlaws?” Will wanted to know.

  Joaquín studied Priscilla with an emotionless expression. “Leave that to me.”

  The way Will’s arms tightened around her, Priscilla had the distinct feeling that he didn’t intend to leave anything to Joaquín. But neither did he come up with an alternate destination, and an hour later they arrived at a mountain fortress that reminded Priscilla of Victorio’s ranchería.

  “They have us in their sights,” Joaquín told them. “When they approach us, leave the talking to me.”

  “Be sure you make it clear that Priscilla is not to be touched.”

  Joaquín didn’t respond, but a dozen or so yards further, he held up his hand, halting the procession. With a slow steady hand, he lifted his hat from his head three times, then whistled in imitation of some sort of bird.

  A similar whistle returned to them, almost like an echo from the mountain itself.

  Joaquín whistled again, this time a bit differently.

  “Joaquín!” Rocks slid down the hillside ahead of a man who scrambled toward them. “How goes it?”

  “Oscar Haskel’s men’re on our tail.”

  “How far?”

  “Two, maybe three miles.”

  The guard studied Will and Priscilla in the gathering darkness.

  “They’re okay,” Joaquín assured him. “This here’s Will Radnor, the white-eyes lawyer who broke me outta jail, right out from under ol’ Newt’s nose. And the woman’s…uh, that’s Jake McCain…my sister.”

  Thirteen

  Sister. Priscilla hadn’t paid much attention to Will’s concern for her safety in the outlaw camp, until they were confronted by the coarse, heavily armed guard. Ruffian, she corrected. Will must have sensed her alarm, for his arms had tightened protectively around her.

  Then Joaquín made his astonishing claim. Sister. Suddenly, the armed guard took on a whole different character; she saw the world from a new perspective. Joaquín would protect her. And Will.

  With Will’s arms around her, they followed the guard’s lead through the gathering darkness. Sister. He’d said it to protect her, and, of course, she didn’t need protection. But at the moment, none of that mattered.

  At the moment she basked in a sense of belonging, of camaraderie, of family. Not that she’d ever lacked family, not that she’d ever considered herself alone. But suddenly she felt whole, somehow. And secure—even riding into the camp of a notorious outlaw like Billy the Kid.

  She had Joaquín—who called her, Sister. She leaned her head back against Will’s chest. And she had Will. At this moment, that was all she needed.

  Ten minutes later they arrived at a frame shack that had definitely seen better days. Weathered by time and the elements, the building canted to one side, betraying a foundation that was as unstable as the rest of the structure looked.

  The windows were devoid of glass, but some kind of canvas had been tacked across the holes; it left more area open to insects than it covered, however. Dim light glowed from within, giving the effect of a lantern burning somewhere further inside the building.

  They were ordered to keep their seats. The guard bounded up the rickety steps. When he opened the door, a shaft of light showed a porch that only the nimble-footed—or slow-witted, Priscilla thought—would tread.

  But one sight of the man who stepped through the doorway and approached them erased all thoughts of rickety porches. Small in stature, swaggering with arrogance, Billy the Kid was the spitting image of his wanted posters.

  “Joaquín, amigo. Heard ’bout your trouble up in Santa Fé. Figured them Haskel bastards’d put out your lights by now.”

  “They figured to,” Joaquín responded easily. “Took a turn at me again today. We left ’em shootin’ at an empty hillside over on Turkey Canyon.”

  “Turkey Canyon?” The Kid looked off into the darkness, the way they’d come. “What’s that, five miles, six?”

  �
��Somethin’ like it.”

  The Kid turned his attention to Will and Priscilla. He didn’t speak. Joaquín introduced them. “That’s Will Radnor, my lawyer.”

  “The other?”

  “Jake McCain.”

  The Kid squinted at Priscilla, as if deciding whether he should believe Joaquín. “Charlie’s daughter? What’d you do, take her for a hostage?”

  “She was in on it, helped get me out of town.”

  “Sonofabitch, what’d’ya know?” The Kid perused them with his small-pupiled eyes, as infamous as his stature. If his size fooled a man, the saying went, those eyes made it crystal clear—this man was touchy as a rattler, and it’d pay a feller to step lightly while in his presence.

  “Might as well climb down,” he invited. “Wilbur here’ll take your weapons. All except Joaquín’s,” the last for the benefit of a string-bean shaped ruffian who ambled toward them, slack-jointed.

  Suddenly Priscilla felt Will’s arms slip from around her. The reins dropped in her lap. She didn’t dare look down, but she felt his hands hover near her hips. Before she could think of a way to intervene, he spoke. “I’m not giving up my gun.” His tone was thankfully low, for Joaquín’s ears only. But, in the stillness, the Kid either heard or understood the situation. “Not with the Haskels coming up behind us,” Will added, like a true greenhorn, Priscilla worried.

  “I’ll vouch for ’em, Kid,” Joaquín offered quickly.

  By this time a crowd had gathered on the rickety porch. Fanned out to either side of the Kid, four men, all of whom looked as coarse and tough as the guard who’d led them in, and Wilbur, who slouched nearby, ready to take their guns. In the dim light emitting from the ramshackle house, Priscilla could tell each man there had eyes only for her.

  She shuddered involuntarily, watching Billy the Kid consider the situation.

  Will obviously didn’t know when it was best to keep his mouth shut, for he whispered to Joaquín again. “I’m not goin’ in there unarmed, not with those men ogling Priscilla.”

  “I’ll watch out for her, white eyes.” Then, in a louder voice, Joaquín addressed the crowd. “Jake McCain’s my sister and any of you cabrónes who looks at her crooked’ll answer to me.”