by Jill Gregory
Her heart thumped in double time as her captor stripped off the gag. Coughing a little, she swallowed several times and flexed her cramped throat muscles. Her tongue dabbed over dry, cracked lips that were so sensitive they quivered.
“You all right?” The voice sounded gruff.
“All right? Of course I’m not all right. I’ve never been treated so abominably in my entire life! Take off this damned blindfold now—this instant!” she ordered in a hoarse croak so unlike her own usual tone it infuriated her even more.
“I think the lady likes to give orders,” she heard that same cool voice drawl, and it was full of mockery. From a few feet away she heard guffawing.
But she felt hands at the back of her head, unknotting the blindfold.
Melora blinked rapidly as her captor whipped off the silk neckerchief that bound her eyes and her vision adjusted to her surroundings. She was in a clearing, in the middle of nowhere. An icy canopy of stars glittered overhead, and their light along with that of a crystal half-moon revealed low surrounding hills and trees etched in darkness and an expanse of open plains beyond. Faint moonlight cast an eerie glow upon the clearing in which she stood and partially illuminated the shadowy figure of the man standing before her.
“You low-down cowardly bastard,” Melora grated out, her mouth and throat so dry and raspy that the effort of speaking brought tears to her eyes, but that didn’t affect the unstoppable torrent of words that poured out.
“Just what in the world do you think you’re doing? Do you know who I am? Do you realize what you’ve done?” She coughed, then spoke again, her voice stronger, fueled by the outrage that poured through her in crashing waves. “How dare you do this to me? I demand that you untie my hands this instant, give me a horse, and let me go.”
He merely stared levelly at her, this man who had so callously trussed her and taken her from the safety of her own bedroom, who had brought her here to this lonely, chilly place wearing only her nightdress and a cameo necklace from the man she loved.
“Bastard, untie me!” she ordered when he continued to make no move. Her eyes blazed with hate as she stared into his face.
He set his lips together, shooting her an implacable look. He was a complete stranger to her, a six-foot cowboy in snug-fitting black pants, a wide-brimmed black hat, and a gray shirt. His demeanor radiated cool nonchalance. Melora took his measure quickly, noting that he was perhaps twenty-five or thirty, sun-bronzed and hardy-looking, with a day’s growth of beard stubbling his strong jaw. He was rangily built, lean but with a muscled chest and broad shoulders.
And strong arms, which were firmly holding her around her waist, supporting her.
His face was not at all handsome, she decided, her eyes narrowing. Especially in comparison to Wyatt’s vivid, chiseled features. It was a blunt, tough, rather ordinary face, she observed angrily, the features even and clean-cut, unexceptional—except for his eyes. These were intelligent and unusually keen, of a light, clear green color that reminded her of a frozen river.
And they were fixed on her with unrelenting calm.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Melora flushed as he still made no move to cut her bonds. “I said untie me—now!”
“I heard you.”
Fury flared in her eyes. She wanted to kill him. Her wrists, bound behind her, were chafed raw; they were probably bleeding. The cold night air was slicing right through her sheer nightdress, and she knew that if it weren’t for his arms around her, holding her up, she would most likely collapse. And she knew that he knew it too. That made her only more furious as she stared up at him with undisguised scorn, hating the intimate feel of his corded arms around her, and the nearness of that maddeningly steady countenance, and, most of all, the raw strength and ease that radiated from him.
“Look, you obviously know who I am.” She bit out the words, using the tone of a schoolteacher whose much-tried patience with her wayward pupils is nearly exhausted. “But you may not be aware that tomorrow I am getting married. Not just to anyone, but to one of the most prominent men in the territory. Do you understand what that means, you lame-brained half-wits?” Her voice rose on the words. She shook her head to toss her windblown hair from her eyes and sent a searing glance around the group to encompass the two men standing behind him as well.
They were gaping at her as if they’d never seen an enraged female before. Melora ignored her captor and fixed them both with her most commanding stare and spoke slowly and distinctly so there was no mistaking her meaning.
“If you don’t let me return home this very minute, I guarantee that my fiancé will have every man in Rawhide searching for me by morning. And when they catch up with you, you’ll wish you’d never been born!”
The two other men said nothing, just stood there like mangy dolts, watching her with a mixture of amusement and pity on their ugly horsey faces.
Then the cowboy gave her a shake. “Simmer down, Miss Deane. Your threats don’t impress us; your tantrums neither. You’re with us now, so you can forget about your fancy fiancé and your fancy wedding. Zeke, cut the lady’s ropes,” he said, and the taller of the other two stepped forward. “Keep an eye on her while I give Ray a hand with the horses!”
He released her then and turned away. Just like that he turned away. Melora watched his broad back in furious amazement as he strolled across the clearing and busied himself with the horses, moving about with brisk, smooth purpose, as unconcerned as if she were a passerby he had casually encountered in a general store, someone with whom he had discussed the price of potatoes.
“Who is he?” she demanded in slow, frigid accents as Zeke sawed at her bonds.
“Guess you could call him the boss.”
The last of the rope fell away. Zeke watched her wince as she rubbed the raw skin of her wrists, his long, bony face impassive. Then he led her to a tree stump. “Here, have a seat, Miss Deane. Take it easy. Reckon you’re all tuckered out. And while you’re at it,” he added in an almost friendly tone, shuffling his big booted feet in the grass, “let me give you a word of advice.”
His eyes glistened down at her like wet black grapes. “Don’t cause no trouble, and you won’t get hurt.”
“That’s your advice?”
“Yep.” He nodded and swatted at a mosquito. “You’ve got nothin’ to worry about; the boss ain’t got a mean bone in his body.”
“Not much he doesn’t,” Melora muttered. This man was obviously an idiot, in the pay of the other, with no personal interest in her or the kidnapping. She wondered if he could be persuaded to give her some answers and maybe, possibly, if he might be bribed to help her. “Zeke, please,” she said in a low, heartfelt tone. “I don’t understand. Who are you? Why did you kidnap me?”
“That’s for the boss to say. This here is his deal.”
“Please tell me. I don’t understand. Are you rustlers? What can you possibly hope to—”
“We’re no rustlers!” He interrupted her indignantly, snatching off his hat and scratching his ear. “Never heard anything so insulting.”
“I’m sorry, forget I said that. I didn’t mean to insult you.” She hurried on, keeping her voice low enough so that the others couldn’t hear. “Zeke, it’s clear that this wasn’t your idea, and that he’s in charge. So I’ll tell you what. If you let me go tonight, I’ll see to it that no one arrests you. You won’t get in any trouble—none at all. Just let me slip away. Distract him for a few minutes so that I can get to one of the horses and—”
“Aw, keep quiet.” He sighed, waving his hat at her in disgust. Then he plopped it back on his head. Beneath it his thatch of rough brown hair hung to his shoulders like a clump of dirty straw. “No one’s going to let you go, so quit wasting your breath. If you just wait a bit and don’t try anything stupid, he’ll probably let you have some water soon, and maybe some coffee. Then, missy,” he added, slanting her a warning glance, “you’d best get yourself some shuteye. Tomorrow’s going to be a real long day.”
F
rustration washed over her as she stared at this gangly, homely man in the brown shirt and overalls. There was no mistaking his sincerity. He wouldn’t help her. She felt the last shreds of her self-control slipping away.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice carrying in a low, frenzied wail that reached the other two men. Through the gloom she saw them glance over their shoulders at her.
“Ask him,” Zeke replied, jerking his thumb backward with a shrug. “Cal’s in charge of this outfit.”
Cal. So that was his name. “What does he want with me?” Melora persisted, desperately clutching Zeke’s sleeve as he started to turn away.
“That’s for him to say.”
“Who is he? An outlaw?”
“Reckon so. Me and Ray met up with him in jail. But that’s all I’m going to say,” he added, glaring. Then his expression softened to one of wry concern. “Say, you’re lookin’ mighty cold there. I’ll just get a fire goin’.”
And with that he shambled off and started gathering twigs and sticks, leaving Melora alone on her tree stump, her arms crossed around herself in a futile attempt to keep warm—and to preserve some minuscule shred of dignity.
Her thoughts raced ahead as Cal and the others went about the business of making camp. Look around. Think. Maybe you can slip off and disappear into the brush, she told herself desperately, even as the numbing cold crept through her bones, and clouds above obscured the moon, shadowing the clearing in deeper darkness.
She’d have to do some fancy hiding to keep them from finding her, but it was dark, and if she found the right place to conceal herself—
“Don’t even think about it.”
Cal’s tall form loomed over her. His booted feet were planted apart, his thumbs casually hooked in his low-slung gun belt.
How had he appeared like that, out of nowhere?
Melora stared up at him through shimmering, hate-filled eyes, taking in the rough stubble on his dark face, the brown hair that just touched his shoulders, his straight, arrogant nose, and his sensual mouth, which curled ever so mockingly as he studied her. But most of all at that moment she noted his eyes, those striking, miss-nothing eyes. His gaze was clear and shrewd as a puma’s.
“Don’t think about what?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“Running away. It won’t do you any good. I’ll just find you again.”
“That so?”
“That’s so.” Cal reached out and cupped her chin to tilt it upward, noting as he did so the trembling of her lips and the heat of those incredibly beautiful golden brown eyes beneath their thick fringe of lashes. “I’m not letting you go, Miss Deane,” he said quietly. “Not until I’m good and ready.”
She snapped her chin back from his hand. “When will that be?”
“I’ll let you know.”
She vaulted off the rock, her fingers clawing for his eyes, his cheeks, his neck, but he grabbed her wrists before she could inflict any damage. She winced as his fingers pressed into her raw skin.
He saw the pain flicker across her face and glanced down. Beneath his fingers, the tender skin of her wrists was scraped and bruised from the rope.
Cal swore under his breath. He released her and forced himself to step back a pace. “Sorry I hurt you.”
“If you were sorry, you’d let me go,” she cried bitterly.
He shook his head, and for a moment she saw a fleeting sadness in his eyes, a glimpse of pain that softened the infuriating arrogance of his demeanor. Then it was gone, and the flat calm was back.
“You’ve had a rough night, Miss Deane,” he said curtly. “Let’s not make it any rougher. Looks like you could use some blankets and a cup of coffee.” He took her elbow and steered her toward Zeke’s campfire. “You won’t be much use to me if you freeze to death.”
His words stirred more questions and rekindled her fear. Use to him? What possible use could I be to him?
But suddenly Melora was too overwhelmed by cold and fatigue to argue anymore. She let him lead her to the fire, sit her down near the glowing opal flames, push a mug of steaming black coffee into her icy hands. She felt the heavy woolen saddle blanket he draped around her shoulders and gave a tiny, quivering sigh as she snuggled into its thick, scratchy warmth.
She was tired. Bone tired. And utterly confused by what was happening to her. A few hours ago she had been home, safe and secure on the Weeping Willow Ranch, looking forward to her wedding, and now...
Now she gulped coffee at a strange campfire in the middle of nowhere, the prisoner of this quiet-voiced, cold-eyed outlaw. Now she had no idea what the future held for her or if she had a future at all.
Melora kept her gaze fixed blearily toward the flames, though she could sense Cal watching her. Let him. She was too weary to glare back, too worn out and despondent to fight or protest anymore or even to try to escape.
At least not tonight.
She’d sleep and then perhaps tomorrow...
Tomorrow. Her wedding day.
Tears scalded hot and salty behind her eyes. She bit her lip and blinked them back, focusing hard just above the bright dancing flames.
* * *
Cal saw their glitter across the firelight, and the knot of tension inside him tightened.
Why did she have to be... like this? Beautiful beyond belief. Sharp-tongued yet fragile. And possessing more spirit and more courage than any other girl he’d ever known.
Seated in the shadows just behind the flames, Cal set his hat down beside him and raked a hand through his hair. This whole business was a lot dirtier and a lot more complicated than he’d planned on.
He wished it were over.
It all had sounded so simple when he’d drawn up the scheme. So just and so fitting. But now that he had Melora Deane right where he wanted her... aw, hell.
He couldn’t afford to let emotions get in the way.
She was just a pawn, he reminded himself, clenching his fists. She was a tool for getting what he wanted. He couldn’t afford to start thinking of her as a girl, a beautiful, fragile, radiant girl, or to start feeling sorry for her or worrying about her. He had to remember why he’d started this and why he’d do whatever it took to finish it.
Sitting several feet away from her, he watched as she closed her eyes and a delicate shudder passed through her shoulders. The skin around her eyes looked shadowed and drawn.
She’ll be fine when she gets some sleep. And she’ll settle down and accept things by tomorrow.
Meeting Ray’s questioning glance across the campfire, he nodded, signaling that Ray and Zeke could turn in; he would take the first watch. At least for tonight they’d have to guard her to make sure she didn’t try to escape.
Cal tore his eyes from the girl and stared moodily into the flames. He drank the coffee from his cup without tasting it. Hell, he had expected her to be pretty, but not like this. She was lovely. Enchanting. That sweep of glorious dark gold hair that cascaded down her back—the strands felt like silk when they brushed against him. Nor had he expected such slim, delicately expressive brows to frame large, vivid eyes as splendid and fiery as topaz.
Her attitude had caught him by surprise too. Far from being cowed by her predicament, she had the temper of an exploding shotgun. He sure hadn’t expected that. Tears, yes, pleas, yes—those he had expected. But not hard-hitting questions, demands for her freedom, and that proud, stinging fury.
The fact that Cal sensed she was keeping her fear well hidden and well under control only brought out a grudging respect in him.
Why did she have to be so appealing? To have a heart-shaped face with the delicate bone structure of a royal princess, or that stubborn, thrusting, adorable little chin he found sexy as hell.
And why in hell did she have to be almost naked, with the lush softness of her breasts and hips tantalizingly outlined by nothing more than a flimsy wisp of silk?
Something twisted sharply, painfully inside him. He pushed the something away.
He had no choi
ce. He’d started this, and he’d finish it. Or die in the process.
He forced his thoughts to the following day, when his enemy would discover that his beloved intended bride was gone. Vanished. A decidedly cold smile touched his mouth.
We’ll see how you like losing what’s yours.
The game had begun. It was an ugly, deadly game. Still, it was a game he had to win, no matter the cost. He got to his feet, tiredness now beginning to wear on him. But his stride was long and purposeful when he retrieved the extra bedroll he’d brought for her and threw it down on the ground near where she sat by the fire.
“There you go, Miss Deane. It’s all yours.”
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? A neat, well-laid-out plan. Too bad you’ll live to regret it,” she snapped, eyeing him with loathing.
Cal didn’t bother to answer. His glance dropped to the cameo glowing at her throat. He’d been too distracted by everything else to notice it earlier, but now the sight of it narrowed his eyes. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to fight the deadly rage that swept through him.
She can keep it until tomorrow, he told himself, turning on his heel and stalking to the edge of the clearing before he was tempted to snatch the cameo from her throat. But no longer. First thing in the morning she hands it over.
Pure hatred poured through Melora as she watched him stride away. Wyatt, I’m counting on you, she thought frantically, her heart twisting. I’m counting on you to find me and bring me back home, to kill this outlaw Cal and his partners for what they’ve done to me. And if not, I’ll find a way to do it myself. All of it. By God, I will.
She cocooned herself in the bedroll, clutching the blanket up to her chin. The darkness around her loomed heavy as coal. She had never felt more alone.
By the flickers of the fire she could see Zeke and Ray, already settled down to sleep, but Cal sat nonchalantly in the shadows, his back against a tree trunk, smoking a cigarette.
Tomorrow I’ll make him sorry he ever started this—whatever this is. Tomorrow he’ll find out he’s made a huge mistake.
