“I don’t know the details, Sheriff. I just follow orders.”
“Yes, well, I just wish I could show it to the judge who sentenced her. Seems like I ought to have his say-so on this.” He looked up at Clay. “He’s a circuit judge; won’t be back in this area for a couple more weeks.”
Clay suspected the judge might give him more trouble than the less concerned sheriff. After all, the judge had seen the original papers sent with Nina, which might have included his own name as the arresting officer. “I have orders to be back at Camp Verde by then,” he lied. “I can’t wait for the judge.” He frowned. “Besides, she’s just one woman, and the rest of her gang is dead or scattered by now. She can’t do much harm any longer. Seems to me like New Mexico would be glad to get her off its hands. It can’t be too popular in these parts to have a young Mexican woman sitting in jail.”
Sheriff Sinclair’s eyebrows arched in agreement. “You’re right there. Personally, I would be very happy to get her out of here. She’s already created trouble in the streets, let alone with my deputy. Three years of this will put me in the grave.”
“Three years?”
“That was her sentence.”
“Well, she’ll probably serve longer than that in Texas, maybe even hang. Either way, New Mexico would be rid of her. I don’t really think the judge would mind that, do you?”
Sinclair studied the papers again. “I suppose not.”
“I’d like to see the prisoner, talk to her a few minutes,” Clay told the man matter-of-factly. “I won’t take her out of here, though, until I stock up on a few more supplies.”
Sinclair walked around his desk to take a ring of keys from a nail on the log wall. He singled out a particular key and handed the ring to Clay. “She’s upstairs. That’s where we keep the women. She’s the only one up there right now. I’m not so sure you can take her on the long ride into Texas right now. She might not be well enough. You might want to check with the doctor first.”
Clay felt a knot in his stomach remembering the sheriff’s previous words about his deputy finding Nina “hard to handle.” “What’s wrong with her?” he asked.
Sheriff Sinclair looked a little sheepish. “Well, I’m afraid one of my men got the idea that since she was a prisoner here, he could have free rein with her. While I was gone a couple of days ago, he tried to take advantage of the situation, if you know what I mean. That little chili pepper gave him one royal fight, I’ll tell you. Things got a little rough. I’m afraid Miss Juarez took quite a pummeling before I happened to come back early and catch Stan getting ready to have at it with her.” The sheriff opened a door to the stairway, and Clay struggled to remain calm, his mind reeling with what had been done to poor, helpless Nina. “The man no longer has a job here,” Sinclair added. “She’s a prisoner, not a slave to be used. That’s what I told Stan.”
Clay took the keys. “Well, Sheriff, you’re a man of honor.”
“Well, she’s young and scared, and, after all, she was put in jail for stealing horses and running with murderers, not because she’s some prostitute who rolled her customer for his pay. ’Course, running with Billings and his bunch, who’s to say how she behaved with all those men? But that’s no call for a man to force himself on a woman.”
“I agree. Thank you, Sheriff. I’ll be back down in a minute or two.”
Clay climbed the stairs in a fury. As he reached the top, the room became so hot and stuffy that he felt he might suffocate. Poor Nina had been sentenced to stay up here for three years! The smell of dust permeated the small room, and he felt a tightening in his heart when he spotted Nina in one of the cells, sitting on a cot with her back to him. He walked closer, putting the key into the door. “Nina?”
She remained turned away. “You are…alive,” she said quietly. “I saw you coming…I was looking out the window. I am glad.” Her voice choked.
Clay opened the cell door and walked inside, kneeling beside her. “I’ve come to take you out of here,” he said quietly. “We’re going to El Paso to see if we can find Emilio, and then we’re going to Mexico, with or without him. I don’t know how you feel about me, Nina, and I don’t expect anything from you. I just want to get you to freedom.”
She slowly turned to look at Clay, disbelief in her dark eyes. A mixture of shock and rage ripped through his insides at the sight of her.
“My God, Nina! What did that man do to you!”
Her eyes teared. “It is true? You can…free me?”
He nodded, coming closer and hesitantly touching her face. “Yes. I’m just not so sure you’re ready to travel.” His eyes moved over her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here any sooner.”
She studied the handsome face, wanting to scream with joy that he was all right, to shout her love. He had come for her! He was not here to arrest her again for something else, but to take her away with him, to Mexico!
Her shoulders jerked in a sob. “I can travel, if it means getting away from here…going home. I saw that you…brought my horse.”
He smiled softly. “I knew he was special to you.”
She sniffed and wiped at tears on her bruised cheeks. “I said…bad things about you to that Captain Shelley.”
“I know. And I know you didn’t mean it. You were just protecting me, weren’t you?”
She sniffed again, swallowing back a lump in her throat. “Clay!” she sobbed. She threw her arms around his neck, and he embraced her. He slowly rose, lifting her from the cot and holding her close, relishing the feel of her against him. She wept against his shoulder, and he stroked her hair.
“It’s all right, Nina,” he said softly. “My God, I want to hold you forever, but the sheriff might come up and see us.” He kissed the top of her head and gently pushed her away. “Nina, he thinks I’m here on official business, to extradite you to Texas. I handed him some fake papers. We can’t show any fondness for each other until we’re away from Santa Fe.” He reached into his pants pocket and handed her a clean handkerchief, then checked to be sure she hadn’t left a wet spot on his jacket.
Nina nodded, feeling almost sick with a need to feel his arms around her. So strong and sure they were. How comforting it was to enjoy that warmth and protection. He was alive! She could hardly believe it.
“I’m leaving for a little while,” he was saying, “but I’ll be back by early afternoon. I want to know the name of the man who hurt you.”
She raised her eyes to meet his. “Why?”
She saw a coldness creep into his blue eyes. “Because I have something to settle with him, that’s why.”
She wiped at her eyes again. “You might…get in bad trouble. If you fight a man because he hurt me, the sheriff would know then of your feelings for me.”
“Don’t worry. I have my own way of taking care of things. I can’t look at you this way and not do something about it, Nina.”
She reddened slightly and turned away. “Maybe you should just go and not come back. He beat me so bad…that I cannot remember all that he did to me. Perhaps I am…a bad woman now.”
He touched her hair. “Nina, a woman can’t be bad if she’s been forced to do something. Besides, the sheriff said he got up here before the deputy had gone too far. It’s all right, Nina.”
She shivered, hunching her shoulders and folding her arms in front of her. “He touched me,” she said in a near whisper. “It was like…like my mother.”
Clay grasped her shoulders. “It will never be like that again for you, not if I have anything to do with it. Now, what’s the man’s name?”
She swallowed. “He is called Stan Creighton. He is about your age, but does not keep himself…shaved or bathed.” She shivered again at the memories, remembering her head hitting the bars. “He is…” Her voice choked again, and she took a deep breath. “He is a big man, big like you. You must be very careful. Perhaps you are not even well enough to go against him.”
“I am fine. You get some more rest. I’ll be back for you.”
&nb
sp; She turned and looked up at him, more tears slipping out of her eyes. “The sheriff will wonder…why you want to find that man.”
“I don’t intend to tell him I’m looking for him.” Nina had never seen such a hard, brutal look on Clay’s face. “You let me worry about Stan Creighton and what happens to him. You just rest. I want to put a lot of miles between us and Santa Fe the first couple of days. Are you sure you can travel?”
She managed a smile, her heart swelling with what she knew for certain now was love. “Sí.” Her eyes turned to pleading, and she touched his arm. “Do not do anything foolish,” she asked. “I could not bear not seeing you again, dreaming of getting out of this terrible place only to find out something had gone wrong, that you had been hurt again.” She studied him in deep concern. “You were so sick when I left.”
“I’m recovered enough for the likes of Stan Creighton. And I’m sure as hell in a lot better shape than you are right now.” He moved outside the door and closed it, locking it again. “Remember what I said. When we get downstairs later, you act like you hate me, like you’re afraid of me. If this plan isn’t successful, we’ll both be in this jail.”
She nodded, and he turned. She watched him walk toward the stairs, studying the now-familiar gait and physique of the man she never thought she would see again. How strange that their paths continued to cross. Surely it was God’s plan. Surely the blessed Mother Mary had spoken to her precious Son and asked Him to heal Clayton Youngblood and let the man rescue Nina Juarez so that she could have one more chance at life and love.
How many times had she told herself she should hate the gringo soldier? It was his fault she was here in this jail, wasn’t it? She turned away after Clay disappeared down the stairs, allowing herself to face the fact that it was no one’s fault but her own that she was here. She should have been more firm with Emilio. She should have refused to go with him.
She moved to the window, and in spite of her sore body she again climbed onto the chair to look out. She watched Clay emerge from below and walk across the street.
“Vaya con Dios,” she whispered softly.
Clay finished filling his order of supplies, chatting with the friendly Mexican store owner but saying nothing about his reason for being in Santa Fe. The fewer who knew at first, the better. He saw in the owner the best side of the Mexican people—a gentleness and beauty few people of his own race possessed. War was a political matter, but reality was the common goodness and decency of people in general.
Mexicans were some of the nicest, friendliest people he had known, with warmth and a zest for life. Often he had heard their enchanting music, had been infected by their smiles and almost innocent goodness. He knew that Nina was as warm and generous as most of her people.
He planned to give her the security she had needed for so long, and he would bring out the passion of the fiery woman who lay deep inside her. A man had to be gentle as a kitten with a woman like Nina, and he vowed to have the patience of Job if it meant winning her total trust and love.
“Say, do you know where I might find a man called Stan Creighton?” he asked the friendly Mexican storekeeper. “I believe he’s a sheriff’s deputy?”
“Oh, no, Señor. Señor Creighton, he tells everyone he decided to quit that job. He is working now at the Bueno Bebida. It is a tavern just a little ways down, across the street.” The man frowned then, leaning closer over the counter. “That man, he is a bad one, señor. I think maybe he lies about why he is no longer a deputy. Some of our people, they do not like Señor Creighton. He is always insulting us. There is a young Mexican woman in that jail, and we think he attacked her and the sheriff made him go because of it. I hope she hurt him good. You be careful around that man, señor. I hope he is not a friend of yours.”
“No,” Clay answered. “In fact, I’ve never met him. I just need to question him about something. Thank you for the information.” Clay picked up the gunnysack full of supplies and headed for the door. “Buenos días,” he told the Mexican, putting on a smile.
“Buenos días, señor.” The Mexican grinned again, his eyes sparkling.
Clay left, walking down the street to the saloon the Mexican had indicated. Just outside the door an old Mexican man sat on the boardwalk playing a guitar and singing songs in Spanish. Clay looked inside to see only a few people, a mixture of Mexicans and white men. He went inside, setting down his bag of supplies and ordering a drink. He spoke to no one, but he felt their stares. He realized that for many Mexicans the sight of an American soldier was still not a welcome one.
The bartender set a shot of whiskey in front of him, and Clay kept eyes and ears open as he downed it and ordered one more. A man about his age and size walked in from a back room then, carrying a box full of whiskey bottles and setting them down on the bar.
“Thanks, Stan,” the bartender said.
Clay studied the man, wondering if Nina was right. He really wasn’t ready for a tough physical battle. A few blows to his middle, and he might be right back in bed. He couldn’t afford to let that happen, not here, not while Nina was still in that jail. For her sake he had to be smart about this, which meant fixing it so that Stan Creighton never got a chance to land a blow. Besides, after what he did to Nina, he didn’t deserve fair warning.
The scratches on Creighton’s cheek was all the added fuel Clay needed to want to kill the man. He pictured Nina fighting the big brute, smiled inwardly with some little bit of satisfaction that she had apparently managed to hurt him. He quickly slugged down the second drink and left enough money on the bar to pay for it, then walked out, darting into an alley beside the saloon when he was sure no one was looking. He walked to the back of the saloon and set down his bag of supplies.
A wagon full of boxes of whiskey sat behind the building, and Clay guessed it was the wagon Stan had been unloading. That meant he had to come back outside again. Clay pulled out his pistol and moved toward the back door to wait. Moments later the door opened. As soon as Stan stepped out, Clay came up from behind and grabbed the man by surprise, circling a powerful left arm around Stan’s neck and shoving the pistol against his temple.
“Answer quick,” he growled. “Are you Stan Creighton, who worked for Sheriff Sinclair until a couple of days ago?”
Stan’s eyes were wide with shock. “Yes. What the hell do you want, mister? Whiskey? Money? Take whatever you want!”
“I want you, Creighton!” Clay kept the gun at the man’s head. “I’m going to let go of you, and I want you to turn around. You make one wrong move and I’ll blow your head off, so help me God!”
Stan swallowed, putting up his hands as he slowly turned around. He frowned then at the sight of a soldier. “What the hell?” He barely got out the words before Clay’s booted foot came up hard into his crotch. Black pain engulfed Creighton as he cried out and doubled over, but the booted foot came up again, this time into his face, sending him sprawling backward with a grunt. He landed hard on his back, and before he could curl up to defend himself, Clay kicked him again in the crotch.
Creighton’s pain was so intense that he felt sick to his stomach and was sure he was going to pass out, but he was conscious enough to hear the threatening words. The nameless soldier jerked him up by the shirtfront, while Stan curled his legs and grasped at his privates in pain. “I’ve given you about the same chance as you gave Nina Juarez, you sonofabitch!” he heard the man growl. “Now you know how it feels to be helpless, how it feels to be hurt, to be threatened and not be able to do a damn thing about it!”
Stan opened his mouth, struggling to ask the soldier’s name, to ask why the hell he cared about what happened to Nina, but the words would not come, and he tasted blood. His jaw hurt nearly as fiercely as his privates, and he wondered if it was broken. He could feel warm blood trickling out of his nose and over his mouth.
“I’m leaving you now, mister,” the soldier told him in a sneer, leaning close. “You say one word about who did this to you and cause anyone to come lookin
g for me, you’re a dead man, understand? The next time I’ll just shoot you from behind, right in your yellow spine! Somebody asks, you don’t know who did this. He moved so quick, you never saw him. You got that?”
Stan gasped for breath, only able to nod. The soldier let go of him, and he curled up in sickening pain.
Clay straightened, feeling suddenly weak. He was already perspiring, and he realized he was not ready for any of this. It was a good thing he had gotten the better of Stan Creighton quickly. He was not so sure he could have handled the man in an open fight.
A deep satisfaction filled him at the sight of the man’s suffering. He only wished he could have killed him. The thought of him brutalizing Nina made it difficult for him to walk away and leave him alive, but he told himself that, for Nina’s sake, he had no choice. If they were not in town; if they were somewhere out in the remote desert, Stan Creighton would be dead. The sight of the deep scratches on his cheek made it difficult to quell the rage in his soul, and Clay could not resist one last kick to the jaw. Creighton grunted, then lay still, bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose.
Clay turned away and picked up his supplies, heading back to the jail. He was grateful for the hot weather. Although the sweat on his face was from his own weakened condition, he could explain to the sheriff it was only the heat causing it. He breathed deeply to regain control of his rage, stopping in front of the jail to tie his bag of supplies onto his horse. He straightened his shoulders and smiled at a woman who passed, then walked into the jailhouse to find Sheriff Sinclair sitting with his feet up on his desk. “I’ll take the prisoner now,” Clay told him. “We can get in several miles yet today.”
Sinclair ran a hand through his thinning white hair. “Well, the paperwork all looks in order to me. What about her physical condition?”
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