“And to think, I would have been satisfied just to burn down his barn. But when I saw you standing there, like you was just waiting for me, I knew I could make him really sorry he crossed me.”
Grace tried to stand up slowly, her back against the rock, but Hartley reached out and grabbed her wrists.
“I…I don’t understand.”
Hartley’s grin was back, but it wasn’t friendly. It was chilling. “He didn’t tell you that he fired me, I reckon. Fired me because I made an innocent comment about you.” He leaned a bit closer, and Grace found that she couldn’t breathe. He was right in her face. “I tried to find a job, but nobody’s hiring. Damned if I’ll go hungry because of a self-righteous bastard like Dillon Becket.”
Grace forced herself to take a deep breath, breathing in the stale odor that surrounded Hartley and threatened to choke her. She could handle men. It had been a while, but surely she hadn’t lost her touch. “Why don’t you just ask for your job back?” There was no fear in her voice, and she hoped Hartley couldn’t see her fear in her face. “Dillon Becket does have a temper, and I’m sure he regrets his hasty decision in ending your employment at the Double B. I’ll even put in a good word for you.”
He laughed at her. Without loosening his grip on her wrist he threw back his head and laughed. “Darlin’, it’s too late for that. By the time the boss finds what’s left of you, you won’t be puttin’ in a good word for nobody. Ever.”
Grace looked into his eyes, and knew that he intended to kill her. She never should have left the ranch. She never should have ridden away with Hartley.
She yanked her hands away from her captor and slipped past him before he knew what was happening, gathering her skirt in her hands and running as fast as she could. North. At least, she was fairly certain it was north.
He hit her from behind, and Grace landed face first in the dirt. She couldn’t breathe, with the man’s weight pressing her into the ground. And he didn’t move, but lay there on top of her for several long moments.
When he did move, he rolled Grace roughly onto her back and then yanked her to her feet. “Time’s a wastin’, darlin’,” he said with a smile.
Grace lifted her head and screamed. She was so winded, what she had intended as an ear-piercing scream came out as little more than a whimper.
No one would have heard, anyway, she reasoned. Dillon was too far away. Grace tugged against the grip that imprisoned her.
“Be still, darlin’,” Hartley said in a soft voice. He wasn’t winded or anxious or agitated. He was frighteningly calm as he slapped her mare and sent Butter on her way home.
“What…why did you do that?” Grace whispered.
Hartley tossed her onto his saddle. “What do you figure the boss will think when that mare shows up with no Grace? He’ll probably figure you fell off, or got took by Indians. I reckon by tomorrow morning he’ll find you—or what’s left of you—and I’ll be waitin’. I’m pretty good at waitin’, Grace.”
He jumped up behind her, and Grace ended up facedown across Hartley’s lap, her head hanging to one side. When she tried to lift her head, Hartley pushed her back down and slapped her bottom much as he had the mare’s.
“And while he’s mournin’ over your body, I’ll shoot him,” Hartley said emotionlessly, turning the horse and taking off at a near gallop.
Dillon walked through the kitchen door and took a big, theatrical sniff of the fragrant stew that was bubbling on the stove. Olivia was bustling around the room, stirring the stew and checking the bread, stacking the plates and gathering together the silverware.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse,” he said as he bent over the stew. He lifted the wooden spoon, but Olivia slapped his hand and he dropped it obediently.
“We might be having horse for dinner tomorrow night,” Olivia snapped. “I had expected to have Grace’s help this afternoon, and she rode off without a word. I’ll just cook up that mare and—”
“What do you mean she rode off? By herself?” Dillon’s playful mood had vanished. Grace didn’t know her way around the ranch nearly well enough to set off on her own, and he had specifically told her not to.
“No. Not by herself. That…that…one of the hands. I can’t think of his name. He hasn’t been here very long, and I haven’t seen him around the place for a while.” She screwed up her face. “Brown hair, going white. Wears it a bit long. Hart, is it?”
His blood turned cold. “Hartley?”
“That’s it,” Olivia said briskly. “They rode out of here hours ago, and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of—” She stopped abruptly as she looked up into Dillon’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“I fired Hartley weeks ago,” Dillon said as he fled the room with Olivia on his heels. As he strode across the room he checked the bullets in his Colt, although he knew it was fully loaded. He grabbed a rifle from the gun cabinet in his father’s study—his study—and ran his hand over the barrel.
“I’m going to look for her. When Billy gets in…” Billy and the other men wouldn’t be back for at least half an hour. He’d pushed ahead, driving his horse to the limit to reach Grace. “Tell him everything. And tell him to wait here. If I’m not back by morning, I want him to go to Plummerton and tell the sheriff what’s happened.”
Olivia stood by him as he resaddled his stallion. He’d already pushed the animal, and now he would have to ask for more. There was no other horse presently in the barn or the corral that had the stamina he might require.
Olivia had dogged his steps from the moment he’d told her about firing Hartley. She was wringing her hands and chewing her bottom lip.
“She will be all right, won’t she, Dillon?” she asked for the fifth time as he mounted his stallion.
He looked ahead, and there was Butter, loping toward the barn…riderless. His heart almost stopped.
Olivia repeated her question. But it wasn’t a question at all. She will be all right, won’t she? He looked down at the gray-haired woman. He wanted to reassure her, to convince her that everything would be fine. That Grace, wherever she was, was safe. But he couldn’t. The sun was setting, and once complete darkness fell it would be impossible to track.
So he didn’t answer Olivia, but galloped off in the direction she had said Grace and Hartley had taken, following the distinct tracks of two horses in the dirt.
Grace opened her eyes slowly. Her head was upside down, and it ached horribly. She felt as if she were bruised all over—her stomach and her legs, her sides and most assuredly her head.
As she tried to lift her head a moan escaped her throat, and a hand slapped smartly against her spine.
“I was beginning to think you wasn’t going to wake up, darlin’.”
At the sound of his voice, Grace remembered everything, and realized where she was. How could she have fallen asleep draped across Hartley’s lap?
She hadn’t fallen asleep, she was certain. She had fainted. How disgusting. She had never fainted in her life, though she had pretended to on several occasions.
It was dark. Not just gray but black as pitch. How could Hartley see to keep going? His horse was moving slowly but certainly across the flat ground.
Grace lifted her head and tried to look around, and to listen. There was nothing. She could see nothing, and all she could hear was the horse’s hooves in the packed dirt and labored breathing, the horse’s and Hartley’s. There was one other sound. The beating of her own heart.
She groaned loudly. The ache in her head wouldn’t subside, no matter how she willed it. But at least she was still alive.
Grace stayed silent after that, and endured the sharp aches and pains. Maybe Hartley would change his mind about killing her. Much as she wanted to believe that, she couldn’t. He was too calm about the whole plan.
She couldn’t rely on the hope that Hartley would change his mind. She could only hope that she could stay alive long enough for Dillon to find her.
If he looked at all. Would he come for her? In her gr
oggy state of mind she couldn’t help but think of her father. He had never come for her. Not even when she’d cut off that whining Clarissa’s pigtail. Not when she’d climbed from her bedroom window and stayed out till morning. No one had ever known that she’d simply slept in the gardener’s shed, cold and shivering. They’d only known that she was out all night.
Not in her last year at school, when she’d made a spectacle of herself in that red dress. The headmistress would write, and her father would send money. But he never came for her. Maybe Dillon wouldn’t either.
By the time Hartley stopped, Grace was convinced that she was on her own, that Dillon wouldn’t bother to look for her. She had disobeyed his very clear instruction, and, after all, he didn’t love her. He would have told her if he had. She’d been living in a fantasy world, believing that he loved her as she loved him.
Hartley slid from the saddle and dragged her roughly with him. She felt as though her head might separate from her shoulders, it was pounding so much, and she swayed on her feet. She would have fallen, but Hartley caught her, pinning her arms to her sides and shoving her toward a rough wall of rock. He pushed her to her knees and tied her wrists and ankles before she knew what he was doing. The rope flew in his hands.
When her hands were tied in front of her, and her ankles were secured, he shoved her to the ground so that her back rested against the rock. Grace watched silently as he built a fire and hobbled his horse. The usually talkative Hartley didn’t say a single word as he went about the job of setting up camp.
Grace closed her eyes. If she was going to get out of this, she was going to have to clear her head. She needed all her wits about her.
She took several deep breaths and filled her mind with a pleasing picture. Dillon’s field of bluebonnets swaying in the breeze. With every breath the throbbing in her head subsided a little.
Grace opened her eyes slowly. The glow of the fire was faint, but it cast a revealing light around the campsite. Hartley was sipping coffee and munching on a hard biscuit. He hadn’t offered her anything, but why waste food on a woman who was going to be dead by morning?
“Why don’t you just get it over with, Hartley?” she asked coldly. There was a faint tremble in her voice, the only hint that she was not calm and assured. She knew, was absolutely certain, that he didn’t intend for her to die quickly. He was going to take his revenge on Dillon through her. Would he rape her? She wouldn’t put it past him, but neither was she certain that he would try. If he did, she wouldn’t make it easy for him. The thought of any man but Dillon touching her made her sick.
Hartley grinned at her across the fire. He had that leering look in his eyes that she had come to recognize. She’d seen that look in the eyes of gentlemen, and it was just the same in the eyes of a filthy cowhand.
“What’s the rush, darlin’?” With a flick of his wrist he tossed what was left of his coffee onto the fire, which sizzled, but flamed back up again. Hartley never took his eyes from her. He was thin, but Grace knew there was strength in those rope-thin arms and legs. His hat had been discarded, and he had pushed his long hair straight back. Surely the devil looked like that, all weathered and tough, with wings of white at his temples.
He stood slowly, unfolding himself an inch at a time. Then he turned his back on her and went to the saddlebags he had deposited on the ground near his bedroll. He knelt down, took something from the bag, and then opened his canteen.
Hartley walked to her with the tin cup in his hand. Every step brought him closer, and by the time he stood directly in front of her she could hardly take a breath. He dropped down before her and held the cup to her lips. She was so dry, her throat scratchy and her mouth full of dust, that she took three deep swallows before she realized that the water tasted strange. Grace jerked her head away, and a few drops of tainted water landed on her chest. She was effectively immobilized, with her hands and her feet bound, the rock behind her, and Hartley kneeling before her.
“What is that?” she croaked.
“Water,” he said as he took her chin in his hand and poured more water down her throat. “Water and a good touch of laudanum.”
Grace tried to spit out what was in her mouth, and succeeded in dribbling a bit of it down her chin. But Hartley forced most of what was left down her throat.
“There now,” he said smugly. “In a few minutes you’ll be manageable enough.”
He reached out and unfastened the first three buttons of Grace’s calico dress, calico that had been dampened by her efforts to expel the laudanum-laced water. With a fierceness Grace didn’t know she possessed, she brought her bound hands up and smacked Hartley’s chin.
She did surprise him. His head snapped back and his hands left her. Grace steadied herself for the blow that was surely to come, but Hartley just smiled and backed away from her. He knew, just as she knew, that in a few minutes, half an hour at the most, she would be unable to lift a hand against him. It appeared that Hartley was a patient man, as he had claimed, and was willing to wait.
The effects of the laudanum took her, even as she fought. At first she was simply dizzy and light-headed, and her aches and pains vanished. Even the horrid headache. The fire seemed to swim before her eyes. No matter how hard she tried to concentrate it only got worse, until at last she squeezed her eyes shut.
She tried to bring back that picture of Dillon’s wildflowers in her mind, but this time it didn’t work. And when she opened her eyes she saw Hartley grinning at her with that insipid grin on his face.
She was so sleepy…so tired she couldn’t keep her eyes open. They closed even as she willed them to stay open, but she didn’t sleep. Her legs and arms were heavy, fluid, and when Hartley finally cut the bonds her hands simply fell away. She forced her eyes open and watched as he cut the bonds at her ankles. She wanted to kick him, but she couldn’t move. Her efforts brought about a slight movement that was not even noticeable to the man who had drugged her.
He dragged her closer to the fire, and she felt the warmth as if it were the sun he pulled her toward. The man above her, the man whose face swam before her, unbuttoned her dress to the waist to reveal her lacy chemise. With a shove, he pushed her to the ground and straddled her, toying lazily with the lace and the ribbons.
When he squeezed her breast, Grace found the strength to push against him, to shove his hands away. No man would touch her but Dillon. She had promised him that.
“Get…your…hands…off me…you bastard.” Her words were thick, not even sounding like her own.
He continued to grin, undaunted by her weak efforts. With his knees he forced her legs apart, and Grace felt his hands on her thighs as he lifted her skirts. She tried to fight him, but couldn’t. She couldn’t move. Tears of frustration rolled down her cheeks, but they didn’t seem to affect Hartley. He was fumbling with his pants. She could hear him groping impatiently at his belt.
And then he stopped. Hartley didn’t move for a long moment. Grace tried to focus her eyes, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Still, she could tell that someone stood behind Hartley, over him.
“Stand up, you son of a bitch.”
Dillon had Hartley’s shirt collar in his left hand, and his Colt in the right. He pulled the hammer back with his thumb, and the man beneath him twitched. The muzzle was pressed against the back of Hartley’s head, and almost without thought Dillon increased the pressure on the trigger.
Hartley stood slowly, his hands held out to his sides, his arms and legs trembling.
“You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?” Hartley asked, as Dillon dragged him away from Grace. He couldn’t look down at her and retain his control, and he couldn’t afford to lose control. So he kept his eyes on the back of Hartley’s head.
“No one would blame me,” Dillon muttered, and he pressed the barrel of the Colt deeper. Hartley twitched again.
“I didn’t touch her, I swear,” Hartley said desperately.
“Only because I got here when I did.”
Dil
lon kept his hold on Hartley’s collar, but lowered the hammer and holstered his Colt. Shooting was too good and too quick for Hartley.
He spun the man around and swung his fist into Hartley’s jaw. The coward dropped to the ground with his hands over his head, and Dillon delivered a swift kick to the man’s midsection. Hartley screamed and dropped to the ground, curling up into a ball and whimpering like a whipped puppy.
Dillon turned his head and looked down at Grace. She was just lying there, her eyes half closed, her skirt tossed up around her thighs. She looked like a rag doll, loose limbed and oddly disjointed.
“What did you do to her, you son of a bitch?” He turned back to Hartley to see the man crawling across the dirt, reaching for the holstered six-shooter that lay on the ground near his saddle.
Hartley found the pistol’s grip with his thin, trembling fingers, and in a surprisingly fluid motion slid the weapon from the holster. He rolled onto his back and fired all but blind. Dillon didn’t hesitate, didn’t even think as he drew his Colt and fired. Hartley’s shot went wide. Dillon’s didn’t.
The bullet hit Hartley midchest, and the man dropped his weapon.
“What did you do to her?” Dillon shouted, leaning over the dying man with his Colt still in his hand.
Hartley smiled as he died, an odd half-smile with a bite of victory in it.
Dillon turned away and reholstered his Colt, and he knelt beside Grace. He lifted her head, gently, easily, onto his lap.
“Grace,” he whispered, unable to raise his voice.
Her eyes fluttered and opened slightly, and she raised a frail hand. She trailed her fingers along his face, and only then did he realize that his cheeks were wet with tears.
“You came for me,” she whispered, and then her hand dropped and her eyes closed.
Chapter Thirteen
Dillon watched her slip away from him, in spite of his command. You came for me, whispered as if she didn’t believe it was true.
No Angel's Grace Page 17
