And now, as Damien drew his last breath, the doctor knew he would soon join him. Butch had been sitting across from him all night, with a gun on the table as a deadly reminder of his reward should he fail. The doctor collapsed into a chair, knowing he had tried his best, and that it wasn’t good enough.
Butch rose and stood beside the table, looking at the crushed and battered body of his partner. “You know, Doc, I ain’t never rode without him,” Butch said. “He’s been with me since we were kids, robbing coaches and stealing payrolls.”
“I know.” The doctor held out the whiskey, and after a moment’s hesitation, Butch took it.
“I can’t imagine him dead. It’s like losing your favorite gun, or a good saddle, all broken in and fitted to your ass.” Butch drank freely, letting the whiskey burn down his throat and numb the little feeling he had left inside. “You know, Doc, this was all because of a woman. Amanda Edison.”
“You both loved her?” the doctor asked, encouraging the outlaw to drink.
“Nope. We both wanted to kill her.” Butch shrugged. “Crazy dame, Miss Amanda is. Everybody in every town we been in remembers her. She carries this old carpetbag and a pet owl.” Butch sneered at the thought. “Easiest woman in the world to track, but she was cursed with one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“A brain.” Butch drank again, then played slowly and menacingly with his gun. “It ain’t fittin” for a woman to think too much. Makes them nothing but trouble, and they’re trouble enough as it is.”
“What did she do that you want to kill her?”
Butch looked up at the doctor, then began to smile, a cold, chilling grin. “You think to get me all lickered up, then you can run and tell the sheriff my plans. That’s okay, Doc. Ain’t no sheriff in hell gonna stop me now. You know, Doc? He don’t even look peaceable.” Butch indicated the body lying on the table, then he rose and holstered his gun.
“You did a good job, Doc, so I’m gonna let you live. I want him buried, though, and in a Christian graveyard. Any problem with that?”
The doctor nearly passed out in relief. He shook his head, then took back the bottle and drank the rest. Butch nodded approvingly.
“Yeah, drink up, you deserve it. Now I’ve gotta find the telegraph office. Haskwell ain’t gonna like this, but you know something, Doc?”
Butch grinned as the doctor glanced up. “I don’t give a blessed damn.”
“You should have let me shoot them while we had the chance.” Luke muttered as the Indians trussed him up, took his gun, and sat him before the fire. Amanda, they let alone, apparently having decided that this odd white woman was not much of a threat. They continually sent her questioning glances, however, even as the old man who’d captured them produced a pouch full of coffee, beans, and a single rabbit. The food, Amanda surmised, was probably pilfered from the wagon train’s store, and the game was the pitiful result of the day’s hunting.
“You couldn’t shoot them,” Amanda said skeptically. “They’re pathetic. This is probably all the food they’ve had today, and if the wagon train hadn’t come along, they wouldn’t have the beans either. They’re old and sick, all of them.”
“We’re still captured—by a group of hungry, old sick Indians,” Luke said in disgust. “Got any ideas to write us out of this one, author?”
“I should just leave you, after the way you treated me—”
“Amanda!” He stared at her, horrified, as if he thought she might do more than entertain the idea.
“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something,” Amanda replied, feeling far from sure herself. The Indian women gave her a hollow-eyed look, then went back to preparing a meal from the old man’s offerings and the food they had scrounged earlier. Amanda thought of the countless times she’d written Indian scenes, the stories she’d penned about the noble savage capturing a poor white woman and taking advantage of her. Somehow, she hadn’t pictured this as a result of her books, but faced with the grim reality of the situation, she couldn’t help but feel guilty. Any of the men in Washington who decided this fate might have read one of her stories. Amanda winced at the thought.
The men gathered around the fire, and their eyes brightened at the scent of the food and the sight of the plates covered with one stingy chunk of rabbit and a large quantity of beans. They ate avidly, a rapt expression coming over their faces as they indulged in the food. When they finished, they sat on their heels with earthen cups of the whiskey that Pop Finnegan would sorely miss the next morning.
“Maybe I can reason with them,” Amanda suggested. “Perhaps I can convince them that we aren’t the salvation they predicted coming.”
“Try it.” Luke shrugged. “But if it doesn’t work, I suggest you get my gun back.”
Amanda’s eyes flickered to the teepee where the Indian had taken his gun. A woman sat cross-legged before it on a buffalo hide, patching garments with strips of leather. She had a dour expression on her face and Amanda had serious doubts about her ability to get past her, even if she wanted to. Instead, she approached the Indian who’d captured them and began to speak in short guttural tones, accentuated with gestures.
Luke struggled with his bindings, ignored by the Indians. The old man listened to Amanda, then, with an expression that needed no translation, abruptly rejected what she had to say. He repeated the same words he’d used earlier, obviously still convinced that they were sent to bring them food.
“What did he say?” Luke asked.
Amanda shrugged. “He won’t listen. He says his name is Lonesome Bear, and that we are his last hope. He will wait until the moon is high before killing us, though. That gives us a little time.”
“For what?” Luke glared. “Great, this is just great! None of this would have happened if I hadn’t listened to you.”
“It wasn’t my fault I didn’t have all the data—”
“Amanda, get the gun.”
She looked back at the teepee. The woman still sat there, but even as Amanda watched, she rose from her position and went to the river for water. There was more than ample time. She glanced at the Indians once more, the few remaining who looked at her with those strange, black eyes, and she just couldn’t do it. There had to be another way.
As if in answer to her thoughts, there was a rustling overhead in the sunwashed cottonwoods. The leaves had fallen, leaving the branches painfully bare and bleached white, thrust against the sky like skeletal fingers. There, on the closest bough, was a familiar little owl, flapping his wings awkwardly in the chill wind.
“Aesop.” Amanda smiled as the bird squawked, obviously considering her departure akin to abandonment. When he decided she’d suffered enough, he left the unwelcoming perch and fluttered down to her shoulder, leaving a few stray feathers behind.
“Amanda, get the damned gun!—Jesus, what the hell’s going on?”
Amanda was wondering the same thing, for the instant the Indians saw the bird, they stopped what they were doing to stare in awe. Women dropped their work, while the men gaped at the sight of the owl. The oldest Indian crept forward, his finger stabbing in the air toward the bird. He approached Amanda, then fell to his knees in mute respect.
“What is it?” Luke asked in disbelief.
Amanda glanced at the bird, then at the Indians. “I think it’s Aesop. A lot of the tribes believe owls are sacred, that they represent a good spirit. At least, it appears that way.” She turned to Luke and smiled. “I think we may have found a way out of here.”
“It’ll take more than that owl to get out of this,” Luke said, but his dubious expression changed as the Indians seemed afraid of Amanda and backed away as she approached. She walked boldly toward Luke and proceeded to untie his hands, and none of them made a move to stop her. Free at last, Luke got to his feet and rubbed his wrists, waiting for an attack, but the tribe kept a respectful distance and muttered to themselves, pointing repeatedly at the owl. Amanda walked easily into the teepee, secured Luke’s gun, then joined him outsi
de the perimeter of the fire.
“Start walking away, and I’ll follow. If something goes wrong, I’ll shout,” she said quietly.
“No,” Luke said firmly. “I’m not going to leave you here.”
Amanda looked at him with a penetrating glance. “I don’t have time to debate this, nor can I afford to take your natural protective male instincts into account. Do as I say, Luke Parker. Otherwise, violence will be our only alternative.”
Luke’s face flushed. She was impossible! He should leave her to these wretched Indians. He turned on his heel and strode past the cottonwoods, got fifteen yards beyond, then stopped. No matter how infuriating Amanda was, he couldn’t leave her alone. The Indians seemed compliant enough, it was true, but half-starved and angry, they could take the offensive at any time. Besides, she had saved his life.
The Indians did nothing. Amanda stepped into the clearing a few moments later, looking as unconcerned as if she was a schoolgirl walking thoughtfully home from a familiar route. Luke was so relieved when she approached that he didn’t know if he wanted to kiss her or strangle her.
He did neither.
“Let’s get out of here before our friends decide Aesop isn’t a god.” Luke took her hand, intending to lead her quickly away from the Indian camp, when Amanda stubbornly shook her head.
“We have to find them a cow,” she said simply. “After all, it was foretold. It is not our place to question destiny.”
Luke’s mouth dropped, and he stared at her as if she’d really lost her sanity this time. “Are you crazy? If we don’t get out of here they might take it into their heads to make us their sacrifice! What are you trying to prove, anyway?”
Amanda gave him the full force of her stare, the one that she used to intimidate professors before dashing their theories to shreds. “I am going to look for a cow. If you don’t care to join me, then I will see you back at the camp. I knew I wouldn’t take to this marriage idea, and this is why. I can make my own decisions, Luke. And I will do so now.”
With that she turned and strode briskly toward the open prairie, looking painfully ridiculous with an owl perched on one shoulder, her hair tied back in a childish braid, and her chin as high as any military man’s. Luke wondered what the sentence was for spouse murder, and decided that no jury would convict him when they heard his side of this story. Thrusting his gun back into the holster, he went after her, reminding himself of one thing.
This is why he didn’t take to the marriage idea. And it didn’t look like it was going to get any better.
They found their mounts a short distance away, still sequestered in the trees. The Indians obviously hadn’t gotten to them yet, and they mounted without interference and rode away from the grove. Amanda led the way and kept to her word. Instead of heading back to the wagon train and safety, she rode straight toward the river to continue the course they started that morning. Furious, Luke caught up with her and was about to give her a much needed dressing down, when he reined up his horse in astonishment.
All of the cattle, or almost the entire herd, had gathered at the river, exactly as Amanda had predicted. Hundreds of the handsome Herefords, exhausted from their frenzied run, now drank quietly of the rushing waters or lay at the riverbank in dazed confusion.
Luke turned to Amanda in frank admiration. “I’ve got to hand it to you, woman. You’ve got one hell of a brain.”
She blushed, as pleased—he realized—as most women would have been had he complimented their beauty. “It was nothing, just a bit of deductive reasoning,” she said.
“Whatever it was, I’m impressed,” Luke admitted. “We’ll take one of them to the Indians, then we’ll get some help to ride the herd back. Looks like you saved us days of work.”
Amanda said nothing, but smiled and nodded. They exchanged a long glance, devoid of the tension that usually sparked their discussions. Amanda turned away first, feeling shy and awkward at his approval. She jerked on her reins and indicated the camp.
“I think we should go now, so we can get through before nightfall.”
Luke nodded and joined her. For all the times he’d cursed her unusual gifts, today almost made up for them. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, being married to a genius. Especially once he had made her his.
Chapter
18
Haskwell read and reread the telegram, unable to believe its contents. Amanda Edison was still alive! Not only had she continued to elude his men, but Butch had given up the chase for the time, because of his partner’s death.
Bitch! Haskwell crumbled the paper in his fingers, ignoring the startled looks of the poker players around him. Amanda had come to represent everything that was wrong. His investments weren’t panning out; he’d seen that in the paper. A recession, the experts were calling it, but the price of gold and silver had plummeted, making his mining shares almost worthless.
The only place he’d been doing well was at the gambling table. Sam grimaced, then tucked the telegraph inside his jacket. Even his recent winnings seemed tied to a woman. His luck ran good when Honey was with him. The men all loved her, and gold poured in after her singing. He’d bought her a new dress to wear tonight, sapphire blue this time, to set off her raven-black hair and those dark eyes. Yes, Honey was turning out to be a lucrative investment. She still occasionally tried to get away from him, but Sam was too smart for that. He had no intention of letting his good luck charm go.
And now it looked like he’d have to finish off Amanda Edison himself. Tossing down a whiskey, he rose to his feet and started toward the dressing room. He’d have to hire a coach and trace her through Indian country, but none of that overly concerned him. No, it was almost as if she was causing all of this: his losses, his lack of respect from his men. Christ, five years ago no one would have written him such a message, that they were giving up the chase simply because of a dead man. He’d left the West littered with dead men and never looked back.
And he wouldn’t this time. As he approached Honey’s dressing room, he stood outside and smiled as he heard her frantically trying to pick the lock. He waited until the sound of scraping metal stopped, then he slowly opened the door and held out the key.
“Looking for this?”
Honey whirled in shock, a hairpin clutched in her fingers, her dark eyes wide with terror. The hairpin tinkled to the floor. Her face paled at the sight of the outlaw and she stood in the center of the room, wearing the blue sequinned dress with glass diamonds flashing from her ears and throat. Her glossy black hair was piled up on her head, and her eyes were as wide as silver dollars. She was surrounded by roses, all of them blood red—Sam’s favorite color. She looked exactly like what she was: a beautiful young whore.
Sam dangled the key in front of her, enjoying the control he exerted over this lovely creature. “You weren’t thinking of running out on me again,” he smiled, but his eyes were like black ice, cold and unrelentless. “Remember what happened last time.”
“No, Sam, I wasn’t,” Honey lied, licking her lips in fright. “I just…wanted a drink, that’s all. Usually the man comes when I knock, but no one did.”
“A drink.” Sam strode across the lavish dressing room and stopped at a silver champagne bucket. Lifting a white linen towel from the top, he fingered the chilled bottle. “Isn’t this your year, sweet?”
“Oh, I forgot.” Honey giggled nervously, the sound like a tinkling bell. “I’ll have some of that.”
“Let me pour.” Sam filled a tulip-shaped glass, then handed it to the beautiful singer. He watched as she gulped it greedily, trying to numb herself against feeling, against him. The champagne tickled her nose, but she drank as if it was water, emptying the glass and eagerly accepting a second. Her breasts rose and fell with her shallow breathing, betraying her fear, and her skin gleamed a warm white, like the mother-of-pearl handle of his gun.
It made him feel good to see her fear, made him feel more like a man. In the beginning, she had fought him and tried to resist him. Now, except
for an occasional attempt at escape, she did anything he wanted.
Anything.
Sam grinned, then slowly removed his gun, taking care not to make the motion obvious. Honey guzzled the champagne, and didn’t notice anything until the gun was pointed at her throat, directly above the glittering choker. She gasped, spilling the wine on the exposed curve of her bare breast, her eyes widening with terror.
“You know, me darlin’, I’m getting a little tired of you trying to run away. Are you unhappy with the way I treat you?” Sam gestured to the dressing room. Beautiful gowns lined the closet and the table was filled with an assortment of perfumes and powders. The scent of roses filled the room, cloying and thick, like the inside of a funeral parlor. “Isn’t it enough for you?”
“Don’t do this, please,” Honey breathed, closing her eyes. The cold feel of metal pressed against her soft, white skin. “I’ll do whatever you want. I promise.”
“Whore.” Sam grinned, lifting the strap of her dress with the nuzzle of the gun. “You’d do anything to save this precious skin, wouldn’t you? It will be a shame to have to kill you after all.”
“No, Sam!” Honey’s eyes opened and she pleaded with him. “I won’t—try to get away again. I just wanted a drink. And I was lonely.” She attempted a smile, but her red lips trembled with fear.
“You were lonely. For me?” Sam asked, enjoying this more and more. Honey nodded frantically, her earrings flashing in the dim gaslights. “Now if I could believe that, darlin’, that might make a difference.”
“I’ll make you believe,” Honey whispered, gasping as the gun slid across her chest, still wet from champagne, to the opposite shoulder strap. Sam removed that one in the same manner, and the blue silk ribbon slid down the other gleaming shoulder, leaving her shoulders bare.
“Yes, it would be a shame to let a pretty woman like you die. But I’ve got to go away on business. And I can’t leave you here alone, you’ve proven that. So I either have to kill you now, or take you with me.”
Wild Is the Night Page 19
