by Jill Gregory
Juliana struggled to draw breath through the pain in her ribs. Her cut lip bled anew as she formed the words.
“If I knew,” she whispered, fear making her teeth chatter, “I wouldn’t tell ... you.”
The knife streaked toward her.
Juliana passed out.
* * *
Cole came awake to find something wet and sticky soaking his face, neck, and shirt. He forced his eyes open, despite the pincer-needles of pain that pierced them. When he lifted his head, groaning, he saw the ruby stream winding its way across the sawdust floor. Blood. His own blood. He was lying in it.
Where? Through the torture of bruised ribs and muscles, memory oozed back. His mind was still groggy with whatever evil concoction Fred had put into his whiskey, and it hurt when he blinked, but at least he remembered what had happened to him. Or at least some of it. Fred. The saloon girl. His drink.
He tried to get up and flopped back down into the red, sticky puddle.
His hands were tied behind his back. His ankles were bound together tightly by rawhide. Fred had done a damned good job.
Cole gritted his teeth. Sheer determination got him to his knees. Everything hurt like hell, but he managed to stay upright and to glance around the room. It was bare except for a filthy cot against the far wall, an old chest of drawers so scarred and chipped it might splinter into a million pieces if you kicked it, and a three-legged cane chair in the corner. A pair of half-burned-down candles flickered in tarnished sconces on the wall over the cot, casting the only light in the room. Breathing hard, Cole noted the window was covered by a burlap shade, which prevented him from seeing outside. Was it night? Day? How long had he been here?
Suddenly the room, which had been spinning slightly, straightened. Everything came into sharper focus, hurting his eyes. At that moment he remembered Juliana and what Fred had said about her just before he’d passed out.
He struggled with his bonds, swearing in frustration because there was no slack, no room to twist free. But there had to be a way. He had to cut these ropes, to get out of here.
Once again Cole surveyed the room, this time with Cheyenne thoroughness. The words of Sun Eagle came back to him: “See with the eyes of a hawk, my friend, not a man. The mouse always hides beneath the snow.”
And that was when he saw it—what he had not even paid attention to before—the cracked pitcher atop the chest of drawers, and beside the pitcher, two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.
Squinting against the pain, Cole started slowly and torturously to jackknife himself across the room.
It seemed to take hours. Sweat poured down his face, mingling with the blood. From outside the room came the raucous noises of the saloon, shrill shouts, laughter, off-key piano music. Inside there was only the buzz of flies and the sound of his own breathing. Cole concentrated all his energy on getting to that chest. When he reached it, he slammed his body into it with all the strength left in his muscles. It took three tries before the bottle and pitcher toppled over and smashed onto the sawdust floor.
He worked as quickly as he could, taking one of the shards of splintered glass between his fingers, working it against the rawhide. Again and again he sawed at the rope, trying not to think of Juliana, of what Knife was doing to her, and then, just as he felt the cords of the rope beginning to fray, just a little, he heard it—the sound of boots outside the door.
Something tightened inside him. An instant later, the door swung open and Fred stared at him as he sprawled before the bureau, surrounded by shattered glass.
The bartender flushed with anger as he met the other man’s stony face and realized what he was trying to do. Despite Rawdon’s bruises and the blood smearing his face, he looked as cold and arrogant as ever, making Fred want to stomp those handsome features right into the ground. He wiped his hands on his stained and crumpled apron, and a wide grin stretched from one ear to the other.
“Still thirsty, Rawdon?” The door slammed behind him with a resounding thud. “And here I thought you’d had enough liquor for one day.”
Cole watched him stoop to pick up a glittering shard of glass, study its deadly edges in the murky light, then straighten, the shard clenched in his hand like a dagger. Blood pounded in Cole’s temples. He’d faced death many times, and here it was again. Always before, he had managed to cheat it. This time he wasn’t sure he would.
Fred advanced upon him, grinning.
“I was kinda hoping to repay you for your hospitality,” Cole drawled, straining desperately at his bonds. He couldn’t break them, though he flexed every muscle in his body. His face strained with effort, blue eyes fiercely glittering.
“Too bad, Rawdon. You ain’t repaying me for anythin’. You ain’t gonna do nothin’ but bleed.”
Fred’s laughter exploded in his ears as the bartender lunged at him again.
* * *
Knife Jackson paced around the sheriff’s office with seething impatience, his temper deteriorating by the moment. It was taking forever for the girl to come around. Didn’t do no good to cut her when she couldn’t feel it, couldn’t know the pain, the fear. He’d have to wait.
Knife hated waiting.
“If she don’t come to soon, we’ll have to bring her with us. Can’t stay here all night—jails make me nervous, even if I’m on the right side of the cell.” His scowl was answered by chuckles from the other two men, kneeling beside Juliana. Their faces shone with sweat in the weak light of the kerosene lamp that broke up the shadows in the filthy office, They’d already dumped cold water on the woman, and slapped her cheeks, all to no avail. She was out cold.
“Carmen’s waiting for me back at Delinda’s,” the scar-faced one muttered. He wiped his palms on his trousers. “Mebbe we should finish this business there.”
“So long as we finish it before morning,” Knife growled. “Mr. M doesn’t like delays. If we don’t catch up to the Montgomerys soon, there’ll be hell to pay for sure.”
“How ‘bout lettin’ me out now, Knife?” Lucius Dane’s wheedling plea was met by silence from all three men. No one seemed the least inclined to release him from the cell.
“I kin bring her round,” Dane cajoled. “Quick-like, too. Smelling salts, that’s what you’ll need.”
Knife spun about to smile at him, showing cracked yellow teeth. “Why, that’s a good idea, Dane.” He stared at the other two men. “Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Want me to get some, Knife?” The other man, with a lined face and thatchy brown hair, raised one ragged eyebrow. “One of the gals over in Fred’s place must have somethin’ like that, don’t you think?”
Knife was scowling down into Juliana’s battered face, the long, curled eyelashes lying like velvet fringe against her cheeks, “I’ll go—I want to see if Fred nabbed Rawdon like he said he could. That’s one hombre I’m itching to get my hands on.”
“But Knife—what about letting me out? After all, you said it was a good idea ...”
Jackson turned, one hand on the doorknob. “I’ll think on it, Dane. You think on how you almost let this little filly slip right through your fingers.”
As the door banged behind him, Dane’s face fell. “Aw, boys, c’mon ...”
But the scar-faced man snorted, “Shut up or we’ll ram those keys down your throat—Sheriff!”
“Yeah ... Sheriff!” Fingering Juliana’s dress, the other man sighed. “Sure wish we had time to have some fun with this one. Lardy, just look at her ...”
“This is business, Clyde. Knife’d skin you if he found out ...”
“I’m only thinkin’ out loud, Pritchard. C’mon, help me get her into that chair. Let her sit a minute once those smelling salts bring her round. She cain’t answer no questions if she’s half dead.”
Through a haze of throbbing pain, Juliana heard their words, and shuddered inwardly. Her ribs felt as though they’d been run over by a locomotive, the splintering pain in her head was so excruciating, she could scarcely keep from moaning; but she f
ought to remain as still as possible, to put off as long as she could the rest of the questions—and the rest of the beating.
Why don’t they just kill me and get it over with? she wondered, but she knew the answer already. Because they wanted information from her and would keep her alive—just barely—until they had it. So what could she do? Lie. Give them a tale that would satisfy them and pray that they wouldn’t kill her when she was done.
But when she tried to remember the questions so she could prepare false answers to deceive them, her mind wavered in and out of consciousness, and she could not remember what they wanted to know. Something about Wade and Tommy—and Cole Rawdon.
Where is he? The bleak question ran through her in waves of hopelessness. Why doesn’t he help me?
Probably because he was far away from here by now, no longer thinking of her, or of anything but how he would spend his reward money. He was gone, he didn’t care....
Tears stung her eyelids but she forced them back. A heavy, dragging weakness possessed her. Every part of her, even her toes, hurt. She couldn’t withstand much more. Oh, why wouldn’t they just shoot her and be done—
“Hey, she’s coming round. Her hand moved. See?”
“Yeah.” Pritchard jerked her upright in the chair and slapped her lightly on the cheek. “Wake up, honey, we’re not finished with you yet.”
A moan escaped her lips. She couldn’t help it. It was all going to begin again. The questions, the blows, the shouts ...
“Hey, Knife’ll be real glad if we could get her to talk by the time he gets back,” said Pritchard, the man with the scar. He yanked Juliana’s hair, forcing her head back, and stared down into huge green eyes that were dazed with fear.
“All right now, girlie. Where’s that hideout? Tell us and we’ll go easy on you. We won’t let Knife cut you, will we, Clyde?”
“Naw. Not if you tell.”
Knife. She hadn’t thought she could feel any more fear, but at the mention of his name, dread crawled through her. Juliana ran her tongue over dry, bruised lips, trying not to cry. Her throat hurt all over from the cruel pressure of Knife’s hands.
“Water, please,” she managed to whisper.
“Unh-unh. Not till you talk, girlie. Where’s the hideout?”
“I need water ...”
“Let me out of here,” Lucius Dane called desperately, rattling the bars of the cell, “and I’ll make her talk.”
Thunder crashed outside, drowning out the men’s response, but they were angry, she could see that even through her bleary, pain-racked eyes, angry at Lucius Dane and his incessant nagging, angry at her for refusing to answer their questions.
Pritchard, who smelled like onions and rancid sweat, struck her another blow to the side of the head and bent over her again, glaring.
“Tell us about Rawdon, then ... is he going to make a bid for Fire Mesa?”
“Rawdon ...” Juliana croaked as her lip started bleeding again, and both her tormentors leaned closer, faces alight with eagerness. “Never heard of him ...”
Clyde kicked the chair out from under her, knocking her to the floor. What was left of a scream tore from Juliana’s throat as he lifted his foot to kick her. But the kick never came. One moment she saw his boot coming toward her face, and the next instant gunfire rocked the office, shot after shot, until Juliana lost count and lay half conscious with her hands over her head, waiting at any moment for the next blow to fall or the next bullet to take her life.
Someone leaned over her and she flinched with fear, but did not even have the strength to push away the strong hands reaching down to her.
Knife. He was back. He was going to stab her now ...
“I hope you don’t mind my shooting them, angel, but it’s all I could think of at the moment,” Cole Rawdon said in a hoarse voice she scarcely recognized. She opened her eyes in hazy disbelief, peering through a mist of agony into glinting cobalt eyes so furious, they made her gasp—then immediately she thought, It isn’t him. This man is covered with blood.
Grayness clouded her vision, then she felt herself grasped in powerful arms, lifted, and the next thing she knew, rain was pelting her face, her neck, her gown.
“Hang on, sweetheart, we’ve got to get away from here.”
His voice. His arms around her. And cold, icy rain. There was lightning, too, which seared her eyes. Like the night Cole Rawdon had found her, the night he’d pulled her back from that cliff....
“Cole ...”
“I know it’s cold, sweetheart, but we can’t stop, not yet.”
She hadn’t been trying to say cold. It was Cole she had murmured, unaware of where she was or what was happening, unable to comprehend the galloping motion of the horse, or the swiftness with which the stormy night ripped by.
All she knew was that Cole was with her again, holding her in his arms, keeping her on this horse, and whether it was dream or reality, she didn’t care ... he was there and she was safe ... safe ...
“Cole,” she whispered again, her words lost on the wild wind. Deep within the streaming mountain gorges through which they rode at breakneck pace, on a pinto horse as swift as the streaks of lightning that burned the sky, with a man holding her who was covered with almost as much blood as she, Juliana passed out.
17
Sunlight caressed Juliana’s eyelids, sending waves of golden light beneath her lashes to tease her from her slumber. Something scratchy and vaguely familiar tickled her chin. Murmuring, she curled sideways and felt the softness of bedding beneath her. She opened her eyes with great reluctance, and a little trepidation, to find herself lying on a neatly made up feather bed, with Cole Rawdon’s saddle blanket tucked around her. And nothing beneath. Not a stitch of clothes.
Just a bandage around her ribs.
She lurched up, then fell back with a groan as every muscle busily reprimanded her for her foolhardiness. After a moment she tried again, this time raising herself up carefully and gazing about the tiny, square cabin in which she found herself.
It was a modest one-room structure. There was a crude fireplace on the north wall, an old dented stove beside it, and a bench beneath the window with one small cupboard standing open to show a meager assortment of plates and mugs. Three cane chairs and a small roughly carved table of pine were set near the stove and were the only other objects of furniture besides this bed. No curtains, no rug, no ornamentation of any kind, nothing but a broom in the corner, an ancient-looking iron kettle on top of the stove, a wood box, and some kindling.
Where was this place? How had she come here? She struggled for a wisp of memory, something to tell her what had happened to her. The last thing she recalled was the men beating her in the Plattsville jail ...
The door opened and Cole Rawdon walked in just as she was trying to get down from the bed.
“Whoa, there, what are you trying to do?” he demanded, sprinting forward and seizing her as her legs wobbled. He caught her carefully in his arms and eased her back onto the bed, scowling beneath the shadow of his hat.
“I reckon Knife Jackson and his boys didn’t knock any sense into you after all.”
“Where are my clothes?” Juliana cried, clutching the blanket around her. Why was she always near naked around this man? What was he doing here? And exactly where was here?
“Your clothes are gone,” he told her abruptly. “With the bloodstains, they weren’t worth saving. I’ve got a shirt and trousers you can wear if you don’t have a hankering for my saddle blanket.”
“Who ... took my clothes ... off me?”
“Bounty hunter. Nice fellow. Rides a pinto horse that’s partial to yellow-haired women. Maybe you know him.”
“How dare you undress me! You ... you ...”
“Isn’t that just like a woman?” Cole mused, pushing her back on the bed with one hand as she tried to rise and wrench herself away from him. “You bring her to the prettiest spot on earth and all she worries about is what she’s going to wear.”
Juli
ana stared at him, speechless. For the first time, she was able to have a clear view of his face, and shock bolted through her at the sight of the bruises around his jaw and left eye. Most chilling of all was the wicked cut across his cheek, jagged and tender-looking, the tissue not yet mended and sure to scar. “What happened to you?” she gasped, horror and concern rising in a rush, but he merely shrugged and laughed grimly.
“I got lassoed by part of the same outfit that got their hands on you,” he said. His face changed, softening. “I owe you an apology for that.”
He reached up a hand and gently touched her cheek. Despite the softness of his touch, Juliana winced. “And for that—and that”—he pointed to the various bruises on her bare arms—“and that.” His finger lightly circled the marks on her neck. She saw the remorse on his face.
Sunlight had turned her emerald eyes to glowing gems, brilliant and incandescent in the pale, bruised face. He thought of that split second when Fred had come at him, slicing him with that shard of glass, and how his one thought had been for Juliana—who would save her after he died? Then, miraculously, some final burst of strength had rent the ropes apart, and he had been free to fight Fred to the death with his bare fists, free to get Juliana out of that jail. Too bad Knife Jackson was nowhere to be found, but he had shot the other two. Dane had been behind bars, cowering like a rabbit. Disgusted, angry as blazes, Cole had left him to rot. He had brought Juliana here, cared for her, agonized over the sight of each of her hurts. All of it was his fault. Cole hadn’t ever believed he could feel such pain over another person’s suffering, but this girl affected him like no one he had ever met. Seeing her now, hurt and confused, made him want to enfold her in his arms. The fact that she was naked beneath that blanket made it even more tempting.
Easy, boy, he told himself sternly. Settle down and let the lady catch her breath. But he had to fight a powerful urge to ignore his own advice.
Juliana, for her part, couldn’t stop staring at the gash on his face. She suddenly wanted to hold him, stroke his hair, and comfort him as if he were a little boy. All the while she had thought he’d abandoned her, but he had been undergoing far worse than she. “Did Knife Jackson do that?” she whispered in dismay.
