by Tera Shanley
“Horny toad,” Garret answered. “Can’t take a step out here without finding one.”
“He’s a cute little rascal. When he isn’t shoved in one’s face, that is.” She gave Burke a mock glare and returned her attention to the horny toad. After she released the tiny creature, she unfolded her bedroll and eventually drifted off, the deep timbre of the men’s voices and the cattle’s song filling the background.
* * * *
Maggie awoke some time later, though what caused her to abandon slumber she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The fire had burned to embers, giving off just enough light to see her immediate surroundings. Wells and Burke slept soundly across the fire from her but when she looked in the immediate vicinity, only an empty bedroll lay shockingly close to hers.
Garret’s. He and Cookie must have been taking a turn watching the herd while the rest of them slept. She couldn’t keep her gaze or thoughts from the empty bedroll. At some time in the night, Garret had lain beside her and she hadn’t even known it. Had he found trouble sleeping?
Sleep was such a vulnerable state for one’s body. What could it mean that he would let himself rest so close to her? Most likely he was protecting her from a rogue cow hoof to the face, but she couldn’t let go the romantic implications of the empty pallet. He cared.
There it was again. The sound that woke her. A man’s movement in the dark. The softest whisper of leaves and kindling giving under careless footfall. It had to be Garret. No way would Cookie let himself make such noise. He and Lenny were as startlingly quiet as a thought.
Eyes closed, she feigned sleep, afraid if Garret knew she was awake he would move his bedroll further away. The thought of the potential absence made her ache.
A soft click of a gun sounded, cold metal met her temple and a large calloused hand went over her mouth.
A gruff voice rattled like gravel in Maggie’s ear, sour breath hot on her face. “Make a sound, and I’ll put a hole in that pretty little face o’ yourn.”
Her eyes shot open and her breathing picked up as fear slithered down her spine. This was most definitely not Garret Shaw.
The man yanked her roughly to her feet, never letting the pressure of the gun at her head relax. A few more yards, and a second pair of hands lifted her feet off the ground. She kicked wildly in panic. Muffled sounds escaped her, and the first man grunted with effort as he brought the butt of the gun down unforgivingly onto the back of her head. Her skull screamed and threatened to break into a million tiny pieces.
Maggie tried to hold onto the stars. Those beautiful pinpoints of light could mean her salvation if she could only keep her eyes open. The edges of her vision blurred and collapsed inward. Then everything went dark and she gave into the darkness.
Chapter 12
The thudding of Maggie’s heart became louder and louder, then almost a deafening roar in her ears. Not the rhythm of her heartbeat, but of a horse under her. She’d been thrown over the withers of a large horse like a sack of flour. Her throbbing head banged limply on the horse’s shoulder as it galloped. A strong hand on the small of her back kept her body steady, but her skin chilled where the man’s palm hit the thin fabric of her dress. Somehow, some way, she must escape this monster’s touch.
She needed time to think and was desperate to act as if she were still unconscious, but when the pain in her head became excruciating, she retched.
“Ah, she lives,” the man said, but sounded like he didn’t care either way.
That voice. The familiarity niggled at the edge of her frayed mind.
The horse jerked to a stop, throwing her balance off. As she pitched head-first toward the unsympathetic ground, she cried out.
“Steady, lass!” the man exclaimed and lifted her to a sitting position, facing him in the saddle. Such strength made her fear of the man all the more potent. The saddle horn dug painfully into her backside and she struggled to escape the unbreakable grip ensnaring her arms. The man kicked the horse, giving her no choice but to still her struggles and try as best she could to maintain her balance.
The man’s front rubbed rhythmically against hers. He laughed, the foul beast, such a grating and cruel sound, it raised the hair on her nape and sent gooseflesh across her arms.
“Now that’s more like it. Stop struggling, girl. You’ll fall and break your neck. It’s probably your fate anyway, but I’d like to enjoy you a bit more before then. Such a pretty girl shouldn’t go to waste.”
That voice. If she could see past the rag he wore over his face, she was sure she would recognize it. As soon as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of night, she would indubitably be staring into the feral eyes of Wyatt Jennings.
When Wyatt decided she had settled in her exertions, he loosed his grip on her arms. Even through the fabric between them, she felt him harden as they raced farther and farther away from the Lazy S. Away from home.
She couldn’t bear it a moment more and slapped him as hard as she could, fingers clawed. Some of the force was lost on the fabric covering his face, but she caught him soundly across the exposed part of his cheekbone.
Wyatt yelped in surprise, and Maggie went limp, let herself fall off the horse and tried her best to roll as she hit the ground hard. As soon as she was able, she dragged her aching body to the forest brush.
The horses turned around and the men shouted as they searched for her in the dark. She had fallen in thick woods full of shrubs and undergrowth between the trees. Unfortunately, chock full of brambles and cactus, which tore at her fragile skin as she crawled for the heaviest growth.
Her dress and arms were being shredded. Ignoring the pain, she pushed further into the thicket. The jangling cadence of boot spurs approached slowly, and she froze, terrified they would hear her. Her captors sounded so close.
Maggie curled into a ball and closed her eyes, unable to do more. She held her breath but her heartbeat sounded so loud. Could they hear it? Surely they would, and find her. It was beating so fast, she’d surely die of fear.
A hand grabbed her ankle and she screamed Garret’s name. All her terror came out in that one word. Where was her safety? Was her fate to die in those woods among such cruel strangers?
The men dragged her, kicking, flailing her limbs and shrieking, out of the thicket and into the clearing, free of the thorns that had so desperately cleaved to her.
“Found a cactus patch, did you?” Wyatt asked.
The half moonlight outlined her attacker’s form, and she connected her foot with his groin. A sickening crack rang out as a blunt object met with flesh. One of Wyatt’s men dropped lifelessly in the dark. A gunshot followed, then chaos as another body dropped. She strained to see but could no longer make out where Wyatt was. Furious hoofbeats told her he was on the run.
She sat up with the conflict of confusion and battle readiness vying for her attention.
“Maggie?” Garret’s voice came from a short distance away.
She let her breath out shakily. “I’m here.”
Garret kneeled in front of her. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
“Do what? I didn’t kidnap myself—”
Then she was crushed to him in a rough hug that shoved the air from her lungs and made her croak in pain. The cactus needles piercing her hands and arms tingled and burned the length of her limbs.
“Are you hurt?”
Her body jerked rhythmically as the adrenaline wore off, leaving her shocked and exhausted. “I’ll live,” she said. “Hey, Cookie.”
“Mrs. Shaw,” the man said as he pulled some sort of long weapon from the body of one of her attackers.
The squelching sound made bile rise in her throat. She turned her head away and put the back of her hand against her mouth.
Garret squinted in the direction in which Wyatt had disappeared. “Cookie, I’m going to take her to the house. You head back to the boys. One of ’em got away so I want you all alert. Send Wells into town for the sheriff. He should know what has happened tonight.”
The man grunted and silently melded into the woods, probably to retrieve his horse.
“Can you walk?” Garret asked her.
“Think so,” she replied through chattering teeth.
Once he’d mounted Rooney, he hooked an arm in hers and pulled her up easily into the saddle behind him. As he pointed the stallion toward home, she wished fervently that she could rest her aching hands more comfortably around Garret’s strong waist.
Surely the ride back to the house wasn’t as long as it felt. Her arms smarted, and the burning sensation in them became so all-consuming, quiet desperation for the first rays of light, when she might begin ridding herself of the tiny irritants, filled her. They rode in silence, but Garret’s thoughts must have been churning. Neither his frame nor his attention relaxed at all on the ride in.
Deep blue streaks on the horizon appeared, signaling the last of darkness before dawn, as he pulled Rooney up to the front of the house.
Garret let out an ear splitting whistle, and she jumped. If she hadn’t been fully awake a moment before, she was now. Lenny appeared around the side of the house like a shade, faster and quieter than she would have thought possible. Garret gave the girl minimal explanation, pulled Maggie off the horse and hustled her into the house. A fire was started while Lenny gathered ingredients for what probably would be another rancid poultice. Smell held no weight over the desperation to alleviate her irritated arms though, which, by the light of the fire, looked to have an angry rash from fingernail to elbow. Lovely.
Seated at the table, she laid her head on the board, rested her elbows on the worn wood planks and held her hands in the air. It didn’t feel good by any means, but it felt a hell of a lot better than letting her sensitive, cactus-needle-pumped skin rest on anything other than air.
She’d always imagined if one found him or herself attacked by a prickly pear, there would be a few large needles to remove, and presto! Silky smooth and happy skin once more. Not the case. The needles ranged from small, to tiny, to so miniscule she could feel yet not see them.
Garret set to work plucking the largest ones out first while Lenny finished mixing herbs and a creamy substance Maggie wasn’t even tempted to identify. After the visible needles were removed, Lenny applied long strips of cloth coated with her concoction. It didn’t offer any relief. Acutely disappointing. As the medicine set, Lenny studied her with a worried expression.
She must have looked quite awful, to receive such inspection. “I’m all right. Just a little shaken, I guess.”
Garret filled the silence with an explanation in Lenny’s language. A word here and there were recognizable, but most of it, completely lost on her. Proof of how far she still had to go before she spoke Comanche well. Quiet anger seemed to be building in Lenny; then her dark frown said he was at the grittiest part.
“I got a look at the two we got, Maggie,” Garret said, “but not at the one who got away. Did you see him? Can you tell me anything that’ll help me recognize him?”
“I didn’t get a good look at him. The men all covered their faces. But I can tell you who he was, anyway.”
Garret’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“I’ll give you three guesses, but I think you will only need one.”
His features transformed from confusion and surprise to barely checked rage. She and Lenny leaned back in their chairs. Fury so potent couldn’t be held in such confinement for long. He needed an outlet.
“Garret?” Maggie asked quietly. “Can you fetch water to wash my arms? If it isn’t too much trouble, that is.”
He left without a word and, minutes later, was heard chopping wood at a furious pace.
“You’re sure it was Wyatt?” Lenny asked.
“I’m sure. He is a cruel man. I was so scared,” she admitted with a tremor in her voice.
Lenny removed the first strip of cloth from her injured arm. The salve had hardened to the consistency of nearly dried mud and as if by magic, had pulled the tiny needles out while leaving her fine downy arm hair intact. Mostly intact, anyway. It still looked horrid, but the relief at the absence of the irritants outweighed her vanity by a considerable amount.
The rooster crowed from the coop. That blasted bird would ruin any chance at sleep.
“You need rest,” Lenny said after she’d pulled the final cloth away to reveal mostly needle-free skin. “Your mind needs to heal as much as your body. Maybe more.” She tilted her head toward the door. “I’ll take the chickens further out to feed them today.”
Who was she to argue? She could sleep for a week; the simple effort it took to avoid thinking about the night’s events wearied her. Garret was still chopping wood, so no hope for a bucket of fresh water. The water in her washbasin was mostly clean and would have to do. She would not venture outside and risk his wrath. Though not the object of his rage, she was the closest thing he had to an outlet for his anger and wasn’t up for a row.
How long she lay on her bed staring at the thin space between two planks on the wall, she didn’t have a guess. It was important she change out of her clothes but she had no motivation to do so. She tossed and turned, kicked off her covers and stretched out like a star, but still sleep eluded her. Her mind was numb, as dark and empty as the blackened inside of an old whiskey cask. She didn’t think about anything. Just lay there. Just was.
Garret didn’t even bother to knock on the door before he barged in with a bucket of water. Normally she would have at least half jokingly called him names for his rudeness, but she didn’t have the heart. He stared at her as if waiting for the insults, which she couldn’t quite manage to dredge up.
“We’ll have to get you another dress the next time we are in town.”
She sat up slowly and leaned against the headboard. “I’m sure I can salvage this one—” But the dress hung in filthy tatters and shreds, and was more brown than yellow at the moment. “You know, for cloth strips, and torches, and tinder, and such.” She laughed a little hysterically. “If I can get the fabric clean, perhaps I could make curtains.”
Curtains would make the room more homey, and she did have plenty of material.
“All right then. I think it’s high time we get you some shut-eye.” He turned to leave but stopped at the door. “Dammit, woman, I need to know if this is the part where you leave. I know what’s happened is awful. Shoulda never happened. Wyatt Jennings shoulda never had wind of you. Neither of us wanted this marriage, and now we’re both paying for it, ain’t we? I’m not trying to stop you from leaving, Maggie. I just need to know.”
While he’d talked, she’d been fumbling with her laces and was almost too exhausted to catch the subtle note of anxiety in his voice.
“And miss the dance? Apologies, Mr. Shaw, but you can’t get rid of me so easily.” She tried to smile at him, but her lips trembled. Garret hesitated, then his boots thudded softly as they connected with the wooden floor and he approached.
“Here let me,” he said.
She started to argue but was much too tired to care if her obviously uninterested husband helped her undress, and held her arms limply at her sides as he unlaced the back of her dress and removed the layers. His hands were strong and confident. They never wavered or fumbled. The hands of a man who had undressed a woman before.
Her back was to him, clad in only the thin shift. His hands paused their movement, then he traced the curve of her neck to the tip of her collarbone, a light touch. She shivered under his silken caress.
And he was gone, at her washbasin replacing the water with fresh. He kept his back carefully to her while she dressed in her nightgown, but stole glances out of the corner of his eye as if he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Her nightgown was sleeveless, and she let out a sigh at the scrapes and cuts her dress had concealed until now. The brambles that had unsuccessfully hidden her had done a number on her arms.
When Garret cleaned the cuts, she tried not to flinch. Doubtful, though, if he would notice. Or if she sang an Irish jig in his f
ace, the way he couldn’t seem to remove his gaze from her nipples. They’d pulled taut and hard at his earlier touch and hadn’t been inclined to soften.
Equal parts mortified and amused, she lowered her gaze but regardless, said, “All you have to do is ask, Garret.”
He dragged questioning eyes up to her face. “Do you still think you love me?”
She nodded, unable and unwilling to lie about such a thing.
“Then I can’t. You deserve better than to make love to a man who doesn’t love you back. Marrying me took that option away from you. Best you can hope for is to make love with a man you’re indifferent to.”
Anger peaked like the crack of a whip. “Are you telling me I should try to hate you? Hate you and then you’ll bed me?”
“Not hate me, Maggie, but there has to be a middle ground. I can’t be what you want me to be. Especially if I think you are forgettin’ what this marriage is.”
“Don’t worry. I know exactly what this is. You never, for even a moment, let me forget your distaste for me. And no, I didn’t want this marriage. Not like this. But because of it I’m doomed to feel uncared for and unwanted? For all my life?”
Surely Roy couldn’t have wished this for her. Tears brimmed and blurred her vision. She refused to cry in front of Garret and held it in as best she could.
“You could leave,” he said quietly.
“Get out.”
“Maggie, just listen to reason—”
“Get out!” she yelled. She’d hit her limit hours before and could take no more.
Garret took his leave, closing the door gently behind him. Shaking with anger, she didn’t know whether she wanted to scream or cry or do both at the same time. She had imagined the man she would take as a husband, and the man in her dreams had never acted remotely like Garret Shaw. He drove her mad! In her lifetime, no one had managed to bring out a fraction of the frustration and anger he could on a daily basis. And she had weathered half a lifetime with Aunt Margaret!
She shoved a pillow in the small window to block the rays of morning sunlight attempting to stream into her bedroom, and thrust her desk chair in front of the door. On second thought, she dragged the desk in front of it as well. She would be doomed in a fire, but it was worth the risk if Garret couldn’t pop in unannounced to exasperate her further.
