by Lee Savino
“I did go to Diego. And when I told him that I had found the man who’d killed his brother, he didn’t believe me. He even told me I should stop questioning, that I would not serve Cyro’s memory by seeking out such evil men.”
“He is right, you know. I agree with him; it was very dangerous to do what you did.”
“And yet I had to.” Even with the farm and the ranch falling apart, she’d been obsessed, consumed with getting to the bottom of her husband’s shooting. She didn’t understand why people seemed content to honor her husband Cyro’s passing and leave his murderer unpunished. “Justice had to be done.”
“I wish you would heed Señor Diego Montoya. You need his guidance.”
Francesca gritted her teeth. Her husband’s brother presented his own complications. “Diego doesn’t need to be in my business.”
“Perhaps it would be better if he was. Diego Montoya has never married, but there is no reason he shouldn’t. He would be good for you.”
“You want me to join myself to him? So soon after my husband’s passing?”
“I do not know. Perhaps not for another few seasons. But the farm and ranch may be better under his guidance. He is a powerful man and well respected. And he could protect you, while you to do your work as a healer.”
“Did he approach you and say he was going to ask for my hand?”
“No, Ana and I spoke about it.” Juan frowned. “Why, did Diego Montoya come to you?”
“At the funeral. He drew me aside and hinted about what you are saying. That our two farms might be better joined together.”
She’d been vulnerable that day, and so alone. Her weakness for her husband’s brother almost made her tremble. He’d come to her after the long day, greeting her in Cyro’s old office, all soft murmurs and tender looks, and she’d longed for his touch, and hated herself for it. When he’d left, she felt full of grief and empty at the same time. Her wicked thoughts on the day of the funeral made her want to bathe over and over again, to cleanse her sinful flesh.
“Diego did not ask me outright to marry him, but he will soon. I know it.”
That seemed to unsettle Juan.
“I thought it strange he would approach me at his own brother’s funeral,” Francesca voiced what she knew her servant and friend was thinking.
“Perhaps he is just trying to look out for you. He’s always felt protective of you.” Juan took a breath as if he would go on, then hesitated. “What is that?”
At the sound of horses, Francesca’s head snapped up, and she and Juan came to the conclusion at the same time: someone was coming for her.
*
So far, so good. Sebastian’s party galloped along the banks of a river, making record time as they followed the easy, grassy trail.
They couldn’t be far from the little lady, and might even catch her before the other party from the saloon.
“This way,” Cage said. The silver haired gunslinger was an expert tracker. Sebastian had the utmost faith he’d soon be at his lady’s side, defending her and proving his valor before riding off into the sunset, or perhaps to a secret grove where the lady would undress and show her undying gratitude…
“There they are,” Cage called and Sebastian let his stallion surge forward to take the lead. The woman now had a companion; her dark head bobbed as she ran for her horse—frightened, no doubt. Well, that wouldn’t do at all. He reined back his noble steed, slowing to take an easier approach.
“Stop,” he called. “We mean you no harm.” He holstered his weapon and held up empty hands.
Gunfire blasted and he ducked in the saddle.
“Don’t shoot!” His horse shied to the right and he realized the shots weren’t coming from his dark lady, but from the top of the ravine. The dead man’s friends had caught up with them. They’d crested the ridge, perfectly positioned to fire down on them all.
“Bloody hell.” Wheeling his horse away from the river, Sebastian pulled out his gun and took aim at the villains above. It wasn’t the best idea to draw enemy fire, especially when they had the high ground, but it would give his lady enough cover to ride out of the ravine.
*
“Ride, Francesca,” Juan cried. In the seconds following their first warning of approaching pursuers, both she and her servant had swung up onto their horses and started out of the ravine. The shouts from behind and shots from above followed them until they broke away from the river and wove through the brush and trees.
Francesca clutched the heavy revolver as she rode, wishing she’d taken time to reload it. How many bullets had she fired into the dead man’s chest?
More shooting broke out behind her, and she glanced back. There seemed to be two groups of men after them: one charging over the hill toward her and Juan, and the other in the ravine near the river.
The rise in the land ended and she and Juan’s horses broke onto open plain. A copse of trees lay ahead and Francesca spurred her horse toward it.
“Make for the woods,” she cried. The group coming over the hill toward them wore bandanas over their faces and were shooting at the others. Francesca caught a glimpse of one of the riders in the ravine, a tall man with flaxen hair.
“I’ll hold them off,” Juan shouted, peeling away to face their pursuers. “Go!” Francesca felt cold fear in her heart. Her employee would stand between her and the rest so she could escape. He would fight until he had no more bullets left, and he would die.
“No! I will not leave you.” She started to turn her horse with his. Waving in frustration, he kept on towards the copse, continuing to flee with her.
Now their pursuers were catching up, in two distinct groups—one made up of the bandanas and the other containing just one man—the tall blond. As they grew closer, she recognized them from the saloon.
“Madre,” she prayed, and crossed herself. She had the feeling this was the beginning of the end. At least she had removed Cyro’s killer from the earth.
Juan saw her cross herself and, as their horses hit the trees, he veered again, turning back to make his stand.
“Go on, Francesca. I cannot let them take you.”
Francesca went from praying to cursing without drawing breath. “Juan, if you die, I’ll never hear the end of it from Ana!”
After her horse crashed through the bushes, she wheeled it around, coming to face their pursuers several hundred feet away from Juan. She drew her gun and watched with perfect vantage her executioner’s approach.
The men with bandanas were still coming, bristling with guns, but angling ahead of the rest was the flaxen haired man on a very fine horse. He would reach her and Juan first, so Francesca started to aim for him, then watched in surprise as he turned and shot at the bandanas, whooping crazily when they scattered.
It was a bold move, but not very smart; he was but one man against them all.
Then, from a hill on the far left, three riders burst over the ridge and started firing at the bandanas too. The blond shouted encouragement to the three who must be his friends.
She and Juan exchanged glances and, as one, reined their horses to head deeper into the woods. They would not waste their one chance to get away.
While gunfire exploded at their backs and the trees divided her from Juan, Francesca wondered who the blond man was, and why he and his friends were fighting her other pursuers.
Then her horse stumbled, tossing her from the saddle. Francesca hit the ground and rolled, coming up bruised but otherwise unhurt. The horse was screaming, and she raced to its side, only to recoil at the sight of bone in its broken leg. With a sob, she whirled to find her gun. Better to put it out of its misery and go forth on foot, rather than risk the animal’s cries drawing more attention.
She lifted her gun from the forest floor and took aim. The shot sounded and the horse’s cries stopped, and she heard the hooves of another horse, behind her.
Whirling, she came face to face with the flaxen haired man, dismounting from his stallion. He must have followed her after
his calvary arrived to fend off the bandanas.
Beyond him, in the woods, she heard gunfire.
“Don’t shoot,” he said. “I mean you no harm.”
Backing into the bracken, she shook her head. He would not take her alive. Her heart pounded as she raised the gun, pointing it at him.
“No,” the man shouted, lunging for her. She recognized him then; the lanky blond from the bar. He’d followed her all this way.
Her eyes closed as she took the shot. To her horror, the empty barrel clicked in terrible announcement: no more bullets. The man tackled her and drove her to the ground.
She fought with everything she had, thrashing even as the man grabbed for her wrists. He wrestled her to her back, his long body weighing her down.
“Hell and damnation,” he growled. “I told you I meant no harm.”
“Get off of me,” she screeched, and tried to claw his face.
When he didn’t let go of her, she bit his wrist.
He bellowed, flipping her over and resting a knee on her back.
“My lady, you will desist,” he ordered in his crisp accent. “This is a rescue. I am attempting chivalry—”
“Liar! Let me go!” she shrieked, thrashing and kicking as she tried to get away.
“Not while you’re bloody trying to kill me!” He caught her arms and shifted more of his weight onto her back, effectively pinning her.
She rattled out a string of Spanish curses, and then felt a gust of air on her legs. The man was drawing up her skirts.
“Stop fighting and listen.” He punctuated each word with a resounding slap to her bottom cheeks, and even through her drawers, she felt the sting.
It only made her struggle harder.
“Help,” she screamed.
“I am helping you,” he roared, unleashing a volley of smacks on her poor rear.
The pain registered and she panted a little, trying to get her breath back as his body weight pressed her into the ground.
“Now, will you listen to me? You’re in danger. I’m trying to help you.”
Shots in the distance cut him off.
Francesca froze. Was that Juan shooting? The invaders outnumbered him three to one. Tears filled her eyes, not only from her stinging bottom but from the thought that her recklessness might get one of her closest friends killed.
The funny speaking man cursed again. “They caught up with you, I wager.”
“Who?” she panted. For the moment, this flaxen-haired fool was her only ally, even if he did have her pinned to the forest floor with her skirts at her hips.
“Friends of Charlie the Red,” he mimicked her Spanish accent. The man pulled her up. “Stay close to me.”
As if she could do anything else. He propelled her along, back from where they came. Francesca stayed quiet and waited for her opportunity. As they moved forward, a riderless horse burst out of the bushes, running free. The man shielded her, then pulled her close to his side, his gun at ready in his other hand.
“That’s not one of ours…is it one of yours?”
“No,” Francesca said, keeping with her plan to cooperate. If she could get away, and catch that horse, she’d have a mount to get home. Or she could take the fine stallion this stranger rode in on.
“Cage should have things under control. He’s a cool head in a crisis,” the man muttered. “You were followed from the saloon. We’ve been riding all day, trying to warn you.”
Another burst of gunfire, and shouts. Francesca’s captor half helped, half forced her to the ground, and crouched close. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, he seemed to be trying to protect her. “Stay here. I’m going to go help.”
He started forward, but then a volley of firing drove him back to cover. Peering out of the bushes, he pointed his gun.
“My men have instructions to help you and yours. Was that your husband?”
She shook her head. “Hired hand.”
More shooting in the woods, and Francesca flinched. The blond went on in his British accent, “Cage is one of mine; he’s a good sort, a cool head in a crisis. He’ll help your man.” The man seemed to be trying to soothe her. It was a strange turn of events, to go from running for her life to crouching beside a tall Englishman, intent on saving her from her enemies.
“I know you have no reason to trust me, but I swear on my mother’s grave I’m here to help.” His tone went from serious to light. “Never fear, milady. We’ll vanquish your foes.” He winked at her, and she stared in shock. They were under siege and he was making jokes?
“Just trying to lighten the mood, sorry. Bad habit.”
Shots fired closer and they both cowered. The flaxen-haired man bent his tall body over her. One arm covered her while the other pointed the gun towards the racket.
“If I can get back to my horse, I can get powder for your gun,” he whispered as they waited for their enemies to stumble upon them. “As long as you promise not to shoot me,” he added in his joking tone. He had a twinkle in his blue eyes. Francesca huddled closer to him, finding comfort in the weight of his arm. She watched his striking profile as he scanned the horizon.
He certainly was handsome enough, tall and blond, well-dressed in a travel worn suit. His pale, patrician face and clipped tones spoke of English origin. He touched her with respect and confidence that made her heart beat faster. She hadn’t been in such close proximity with a man since Cyro, and her older husband hadn’t made her feel like this.
Perhaps it was just nerves from being pursued. She pushed her awakened feelings away, scolding herself. She didn’t have time for such foolishness.
After a few minutes, the Englishman rose. “I haven’t heard anything for a while. Let’s see if we can find my horse and the others.” He held out a hand to help her up. “After you, my lady.”
*
Sebastian stayed close to his gun-slinging Spanish rose. She’d gotten some color in her cheeks. He was looking forward to being properly introduced. He was about to tell her that, when a man stepped out with a gun pointed at them.
In one move, he thrust the lady behind him, and fired his own weapon
The scoundrel fired too, and threw himself behind a rock.
Sebastian went to fire again, and his gun jammed.
“Damn, damn and double damn,” he muttered, pushing the woman behind a bush.
Shots came at them and he threw himself over her.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said, feeling her quiver underneath him.
A bout of cursing from behind the boulder told him it was now or never. Rising, Sebastian charged. The man crouched behind the rock, reloading his own gun, looked up in surprise as a leggy Englishman in suit and vest leapt over the rock and landed right on top of him.
*
Francesca heard the struggles and rose just in time to see the blond man punch and then pistol whip her pursuer unconscious. He grabbed the man’s gun and stretched his hand out to her. She took it, with a little thrill, and they ran for his stallion.
“That may have been the last of them.” He settled his horse before turning to give her a boost up. The stallion snorted in displeasure at an unfamiliar rider but obeyed his master. “There were only a few of them, and with my party and yours, they’re outnumbered.” A smile wreathed his face, and his boyish good looks took her breath away. “We’re almost out of the woods. Quite literally. And wherever you’re going, I’ll get you there safe and sound, I swear it.”
Francesca nodded, then kicked his stallion into a gallop, leaving the startled Englishman falling backwards into the dust.
She intended to ride as far and as fast as the fine beast would carry her. A part of her felt guilty for leaving her would-be rescuer behind, to face potential danger alone. She reasoned he could take care of himself, and, besides, she hadn’t asked him to help her. With his handsome face and gallantry, he was a complication she didn’t need.
These thoughts flashed through her mind in a matter of seconds, for as soon as she r
eached the edge of the clearing, the stallion grew angry and bucked her right off.
Francesca fell off a horse for the second time that day, and looked up into the furious face of her fair-haired rescuer.
“Perhaps, my lady, I didn’t make myself clear. I know you don’t trust me, but there’s a certain level of cooperation I expect when I’m risking my life for someone.”
“All right,” she answered, then rolled and scrambled up, dashing away as quickly as she could in a final attempt to escape. She didn’t even know why she was running, except that he was upset with her.
“My lady, stop! It may not be safe.”
She tore through the undergrowth, hearing him crash after her. Her breath burned in her chest and she put on an extra burst of speed, but he caught her, driving them both to the ground.
“I’m really getting tired of this.” Again, the man subdued her by weighing her down, this time with his full length. His torso pressed into her back, his long legs tangled with hers.
“Please,” she gasped. “Just let me go. I have money, I can pay.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I’ll lie with you then, just don’t hurt me.”
“I don’t want that either. I just want to talk to you.” He lifted off of her, hoisting her into a sitting position.
“Please.” She let out a sob, and made her body go limp until he turned her to face him. Then she kicked out, almost catching him in the sweet spot between his legs.
“Ha,” she cried, pleased her begging had caught him off guard.
“My lady, you are going to regret that.” Something flashed in his blue eyes, beyond anger, and she dug her feet into the ground, scuttling away from him on her bottom. He caught an ankle and dragged her back, then roped her ankles together.
“What are you doing?” she cried as he hauled her up. Half dragging, half carrying her, he got her to a freshly fallen tree resting a foot off the ground. Forcing her face down over the trunk, he ran a rope underneath, tightening it so her arms and legs and whole body wrapped around the tree. Trussed tight, her feet were on the ground, but she couldn’t move more than her head.
