by Jill Gregory
Sleep claimed Melora almost instantly, blotting out the image of Cal’s tall, strong form, his ruthless calm, and his ice green eyes, plunging her deeply, thankfully into the safety of sweet black oblivion.
She never stirred until the morning.
Chapter 3
Morning arrived all too soon for Melora.
She heard the scrape of boots on rock, the low rumbling of men’s voices, the shuffling sounds of horses being led about and saddled. And at once the memory of last night’s ordeal flooded back.
She didn’t open her eyes at first. She waited, motionless in her thick, warm bedroll, pretending to be still asleep while Cal talked quietly with Ray and Zeke.
“I’m not taking any chances; we have to wipe out every trace of our camp,” she heard him say in a low tone. A gust of damp wind drowned out his next words, but when it died down, she strained to pick up the rest. “... even though with luck the rain’ll hit soon and wash away our tracks, we’ve got to make sure no one can pick up our trail.”
“Don’t you worry, Cal, there ain’t no one going to have a notion where to start looking for that little lady. Not until you give ‘em one, that is.” It was Zeke’s voice. Melora recognized its scratchy timbre at once.
“When we going to split up, Cal?” she heard Ray ask, over the clatter of what sounded like pots and pans. Was it her imagination or did she smell fresh-brewed coffee and frying meat and biscuits?
Then Cal spoke again. “We’ll split up at Thunder Pass. If we ride hard, I reckon we ought to reach it before sunset.”
As they moved off, too far away for her to make out their words, Melora thought of home, of Jinx at the breakfast table, asking Aggie where she was, of Aggie going upstairs to her room and finding her gone, her bed not slept in, of Wyatt learning that his bride had disappeared...
Don’t think about it, or you’ll start to cry. Think about escaping, about finding your way back. You can outsmart Cal what’s-his-name and those two idiots he’s got working for him. You’re not some namby-pamby who doesn’t know how to shift for herself. You’re Craig Deane’s daughter and don’t forget it.
Taking a deep breath, Melora opened her eyes and surreptitiously looked around.
The men were clustered near the horses, not looking her way. She lifted her head a moment, glancing swiftly about to get her bearings. This morning the clearing looked different from last night: larger, grassier, yet more secluded against the wall of the mountain. The sky was overcast, the air damp and chill.
In every direction were plains, vast rolling plains, rising gradually in the far northward distance to buttes and mountains.
The urge flashed through her to scramble up before anyone realized what was happening and to sprint through the copse of trees to her left in a bold dash for freedom. But something told her this was not the time. They had horses and guns. And daylight.
They would certainly find her.
But maybe after Thunder Pass, when Zeke and Ray had gone their separate ways, and there was only Cal to contend with...
Cal turned and saw her then. She gritted her teeth, sat up, and tossed her sleep-tousled curls from her eyes as he headed across the clearing with Zeke and Ray dogging his heels.
“Reckon you’d best get a move on, Miss Deane. We’re headed out.” His voice was as flat as the expression in his eyes. With his brown hair combed, wearing a fresh black shirt, vest, and trousers, and with the blue neckerchief knotted around his neck he looked refreshed, tough and alert, and more than ready for a hard day’s ride. The thought flashed into her mind that he seemed to be a man who would always be ready for what life might throw at him.
“Yep,” Ray added, rubbing his mustard yellow chin whiskers, “if you don’t get some breakfast now, you won’t have any grub till lunch.” He slapped his hat against his portly thigh. “And riding all morning sure is hard enough work without doin’ it on an empty stomach.”
She shifted her gaze to Zeke, who was swilling coffee from a tin mug. His long, mousy face looked even thinner in the morning light than it had in the darkness, his black eyes peering sleepily out at her from over the rim of the mug.
“Well?” Melora demanded. “Aren’t you going to put in your two cents’ worth?”
He seemed oddly distracted. “Why, sure, Miss Deane, if you want—”
“I don’t want.” Then Melora realized, too late, that the bedroll blanket had slipped down when she sat up. All three men were eyeing her and her sheer nightdress with decided interest.
Her cheeks flamed as she clutched the blanket to her. “The least you barbarians could do is provide me with some decent clothes!” she yelled.
Zeke peered at Cal. “Think maybe we should get her the stuff we brought along?”
“Might as well. Otherwise she’ll shout the hills down.” Cal shrugged, and threw Melora one flinty glance before turning back toward his saddlebag. Deliberately ignoring her, hoping she couldn’t see his irresistible interest in her every move, he busied himself stowing various utensils and belongings in his pack and reminded himself that the less he had to do with his stunning kidnap victim, the better.
In truth he couldn’t wait for her to get herself dressed in some decent clothes. It had been damned distracting last night, seeing her in that flimsy nightdress, but today was somehow even worse. By all rights she ought to look haggard today—pale, exhausted, and yes, damn it, frightened.
But Melora Deane, with her flushed cheeks, her sunshine hair, and her flashing eyes, seemed every bit as defiant and willful as she had last night.
This might not be as easy as I thought, Cal admitted to himself uneasily. If I don’t cow her into cooperation right quick, this could be a mighty long and unpleasant journey until we get where we’re going.
He swore under his breath as he slung his pack over his shoulder and headed toward his bay horse, Rascal.
When Melora saw Zeke carrying her rose and gray floral carpetbag and her small brass trunk, she scrambled up in disbelief, hauling the blanket with her. Well, thank heavens for small favors—she’d at least have her personal toiletries and some clothes. What very civilized kidnappers to have brought her traveling bags along, the traveling bags she’d packed to bring on her honeymoon!
At this thought, Melora’s rage mounted until she felt she would choke on it. Before Zeke could hand the carpetbag to her, she snatched it from him, then glared as he and Ray shook their heads and chuckled.
“Don’t you two smelly idiots have anything else to do than stand there and leer at me? Go water the horses or shoot yourselves in the foot or... something!” Her gaze seared them with contemptuous loathing.
They just grinned, shrugged their shoulders, and Zeke set the trunk down before he and Ray lumbered off.
Clutching her two bags, Melora started toward the trees. Pain shot through her thighs and calves with every step, but she resolutely ignored the stiffness and hurried forward until Cal’s sharp voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Just as he had last night, he sprinted to her side and stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“I have need of a few moments of privacy. You don’t expect me to get dressed or to—to perform my toilette here, do you?”
His thumbs were hooked in his pockets. He was studying her suspiciously, his hat pushed back on his head. He’d changed to fresh clothes, but he hadn’t bothered to shave, she noticed, and the rough stubble on his jaw and chin was darker and thicker than it had looked last night in the moonlight, giving him an even harsher aspect. But his words were surprisingly mild.
“There’s a stream just past those cottonwoods. Be my guest.”
“Thank you!”she bit out. But as she started to brush past him, his hand shot out and gripped her arm.
“Not so fast. There’s something I want first.”
Something he wanted? Melora tried to yank her arm away and failed. What could he possibly want?
As she usually did when she was uncertai
n or angry, she attacked. “There’s something I want as well. To understand who the hell you are and why you’ve done this to me. Just what are you after?”
“There’s no need for you to know that now. But I do need something from you.”
Her heartbeat quickened as his eyes dropped from her face and flickered briefly down to the pulse throbbing in her throat.
“And what might that be?” she asked in a low, dangerous tone.
“The cameo,” he said grimly.
Surprise twitched through her. “What about it?”
“Give it to me.”
She dropped both the carpetbag and the trunk, and her hands flew to her throat, cupping the ivory cameo protectively.
“Never. You can’t have my cameo!”
Suddenly he looked even more dangerous than he had the night before, when he’d first taken off her blindfold.
“Can’t I?” he asked so ominously that a distinctly unpleasant shiver needled down her spine.
Melora fought her fear. “You—you... Why, you’re nothing but a low-down thief! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” She began backing away. “My fiancé gave me this cameo. It’s precious to me. Isn’t it bad enough you’ve ruined my wedding day? If you think I’m going to give you this—”
Cal advanced on her and seized both her hands. He pulled them ruthlessly downward. He did not let them go but held them immobile at her sides. The quiet warning in his eyes alarmed her—she’d already sensed he was not a man to be lightly dismissed—and now, as she stared into those icy, determined green depths, her own eyes widened and she gazed at him in apprehensive silence.
“If you don’t give it to me, Miss Deane, I’ll take it. Is that what you want?”
1 hate you, hate you, hate you. Melora raged silently, engulfed by drowning frustration. This tall, hard-eyed man had the inflexibility of an oak. He had stolen her from Wyatt and from Jinx and from everything she held dear. He had manhandled her and forced her to ride gagged, trussed, and blindfolded until she was more saddle sore than she’d ever been in her life. He had ruined her wedding day, he was taking her God knew where for no known reason, and now, now he wanted to steal the cameo Wyatt had given her with such love and tenderness.
Hatred and fury seared straight through to her heart. But just as Melora was about to burst out with a fiery reply, she remembered the words her father had frequently spoken to her when she was close to losing her temper beyond redemption.
Hold on to your hat, Mel. Think—think good and hard before you speak. It’s smarter to use your brain, girl, and not let your tongue run away with you like a bronc that’s been jabbed with a hot poker.
She swallowed back her retort and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather her composure. Since Pop’s death she’d been working hard to correct her faults; she’d tried to grow up and run things as responsibly and even handedly as he had. She’d made an effort to learn how to curb her wildfire temper, to be patient and tolerant of others’ weaknesses and stupidities, as he had been. Pop had often told her it had taken him forty years of his life to learn tolerance and control; Melora, upon taking over the ranch, had pledged to herself that she would become more like him immediately, no matter how hard it proved. So now she gave herself a lecture, struggling to subdue her instincts to lash out in anger.
Compose yourself. Think first; then speak.
So... she thought. She thought about this lanky, despicable Cal with his cold green eyes. She thought about him swinging from a hangman’s noose. She thought about his face turning a ghastly mottled purple, about him being cut down after a good long time and buried in a cheap pine casket on Boot Hill.
She thought the entire notion absolutely lovely.
Melora was smiling grimly as she opened her eyes. “Fine,” she said, mimicking the tone he had used with her earlier. “If you want the cameo, here. Take it.” Yet her trembling fingers fumbled on the clasp. “And I hope you’re cursed every moment you have it. Which won’t be long. When my fiancé catches up with you—”
She broke off at the sudden nasty gleam that entered his eyes. Melora stared at him, silent, trying to read the keenly attuned, deadly set of his face.
“Yes?” Cal prodded. He cocked his head to one side, mocking her. “Don’t you want to threaten me with the dire punishments Mr. Wyatt Holden will exact?”
She studied him, her heart suddenly thudding. “I never told you Wyatt’s name,” she said slowly. “How do you know it?”
“I know lots of things, Miss Deane, and none of them concerns you.” He reached to take the cameo, which dangled in her hand.
Melora made a small moue but didn’t try to cling to the cameo. It was so fragile she feared it would break in a struggle. But as Cal’s fingers grazed hers, heat singed her, and she dropped the cameo into his hand as if it were a live coal.
Cal appeared not to experience any such sensation. He stared down at the delicate ivory cameo for a moment, then slowly closed his callused fist around it.
When he looked at her again, his gaze flicked over her with dismissive coldness. “Go get dressed.”
His expression aloof and unreadable, he watched her gather up her carpetbag and her trunk and hurry off toward the trees.
Beneath that steely gaze, she was only too glad to escape to the shelter of the trees.
* * *
Less than a quarter of an hour later Melora had washed in the stream, combed the tangles from her hair, and dressed in the only garments that would be serviceable in her present predicament. The mulberry traveling dress she’d packed for her honeymoon wouldn’t do, nor would her aqua silk faille, nor the cream-colored walking gown with its delicately embroidered lace sleeves; all were left neatly folded within her brass trunk. She had to make do with her lace-up boots and the dark green velvet riding habit she’d originally worn at school in Boston; her father had bought it for her right before she went off and left him and Jinx for the very first time.
“You’ll be riding in pretty parks now, Mel, not on the ranch,” he’d told her, his eyes glistening with proud tears. “I don’t want those eastern girls turning up their noses at my little girl. So you must have a right and proper riding habit, the kind they wear in the East. According to the catalogs at Naughton’s, this here velvet thing is it.”
The “velvet thing” had served her well. It was tightly cut, with black lace at the throat and wrists, and its fitted bodice and long split skirt accentuated the soft curves of her figure. The brilliant dark green was stunning with her deep golden hair, her tawny eyes, and her pale apricot coloring. No one in Boston had laughed at her. She’d been courted and petted and invited to ride in the park so often one of her suitors had jokingly christened it Melora Park.
But little had she ever guessed she’d be wearing the very same riding habit during her kidnapping. At least it’s more appropriate than this damned nightdress, Melora thought despondently as she folded the filmy white garment back inside her carpetbag atop two other traveling dresses. Suddenly she saw the barrel of her gun sticking out from beneath a rolled-up pair of clean drawers.
Her gun! She’d forgotten all about the little Colt pistol she’d packed in her carpetbag. And she had another gun in her trunk, Melora suddenly remembered, muffling a whoop of excitement. She’d tucked her tiny hideaway derringer beneath the jewelry pouch days ago.
How thoughtful of Cal and his pards to present her with her very own weapons!
Melora clasped the little Colt in her hand, the cool steel sending a flow of confidence back into her. Pop had always stressed to her two things: Be self-reliant and be prepared. To that end she’d decided that one small gun in each bag while traveling through rough-and-tumble country to San Francisco for her honeymoon would be a prudent precaution. Now it seemed like brilliant foresight.
But as she knelt beside the trunk to fish out the derringer, voices from the clearing made her pause and listen.
Those were Zeke’s and Ray’s voices, raised enough so that she could
hear them arguing about when the rain would most likely start and whether they would be setting out for the day’s ride before noon. They sounded edgy and impatient as they waited for her, and she suddenly realized that at any moment one of them—or Cal—would come to get her.
Forget the derringer. You have to get out of here now. Springing to her feet, she surveyed the vicinity with a darting glance. All her senses felt as if they were on fire.
She’d already determined that there was little cover in the sagebrush-studded plains north of the clearing. But ahead, where the stream trickled past some rocks and curved down an incline, she saw thickening clumps of alders and what looked like the beginning of a wood. The ground was nearly level here, and the denser overhang of trees was only a hundred yards ahead.
She had to try. She had her Colt, her wits, and her knowledge of the land. And with any luck she might also have a precious few moments’ head start.
Like a squirrel, she dashed along the stream toward the thicker line of trees, her boots flying across the short grama grass. When she reached the beginning of the wood, she threw a glance over her shoulder.
Not a soul in sight. They hadn’t started looking for her yet.
Run.
Heart pounding with hope, she plunged ahead.
Chapter 4
“I know when rain’s comin’, Ray; my bunions tell me every damned time, and I guarantee you, there’ll be a downpour before noon, or my name ain’t Zeke McCloud.”
“You’re wrong, Zeke. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I’ll bet you any damned thing you want, I’ll bet you ten dollars that it don’t rain till after sunset.”
“You know I don’t bet money, Ray,” Zeke shouted, stomping directly up to the other man, glaring into his face. “My ma taught me never to bet money. Now if you want to bet, I’ll bet you somethin’ else, something like your saddle. I fancy that new saddle of yours—”
“Quiet!” Cal thundered.
They stopped arguing and stared at him.
