by Connie Mason
Sam opened her eyes to find a dark figure standing silhouetted against the storm-lit sky, his stetson pulled low on his forehead. His shirt was unbuttoned down his dark chest, and his tight buckskin trousers molded thickly muscled thighs. One word escaped her parched lips as he bent to lift her from the wet ground. “Will?”
“I don’t know who Will is, lady, unless he’s your pardner,” Colt ground out. “But you’re both in a heap of trouble.”
“Wh…where are you taking me?” she asked shakily.
“I don’t know. How far to Karlsburg?”
“Ten miles.” The way she said it made it seem like hundreds, so weak was her voice. Colt doubted she’d withstand the long ride to town, bleeding as she was.
“Then we’d best get goin’. You need a doctor. Pronto.” She gasped in agony and paled when he swung her into his arms.
“Take me home,” Sam begged, her violet eyes hazy with pain. “Please take me home.” Large tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Jail is the only place you’re goin’, lady,” Colt insisted, deliberately hardening his heart. He had knocked around too long to be moved by a woman’s tears. Yet the suffering of this woman touched him in a way he’d never thought possible. Was he getting soft in his old age?
“Not jail,” Sam gasped, shuddering at the thought. How strange, she reflected dazedly, but when she’d planned this holdup she’d never considered that either she or Will might end up hurt—or in jail.
“Christ! If you don’t get help soon, lady, you’ll bleed to death and then it won’t matter where I take you,” Colt muttered.
“Home,” Sam repeated weakly, slowly slipping into a world of darkness.
“Where is home?” Colt heard himself asking. What in the hell had gotten into him? he chided himself, allowing a woman to interfere with his job. Captain Ford’s orders were to get the Crowder gang out of Karlsburg, not to cater to the whims of an outlaw. Yet he wasn’t entirely convinced this woman was a part of the gang he’d been sent to investigate. Perhaps this holdup was an isolated incident having nothing to do with the Crowders. He certainly intended to find out But regardless, the girl and her accomplice belonged behind bars, and it was his job to see that they got there.
“Five miles due west,” Sam faltered, mustering the remnants of her strength. “Circle H Ranch … on … on the creek. Please take …”
Whatever she started to say died in her throat as her head lolled sideways onto Colt’s broad chest. Spitting out a stream of expletives, Colt lifted her atop Thunder while he carefully mounted behind her. If they were but five miles from her home, her horse would eventually make its own way back. Setting Thunder in a westerly direction, Colt concentrated on the wounded woman in his arms, alarmed by the copious amount of blood seeping through the makeshift bandage he had applied. She’d be damn lucky to reach home alive, he thought, kneeing Thunder into a faster gait.
Reaching behind him, Colt retrieved his raingear and spread it over him and the girl, who had begun to shiver from shock and exposure. “I don’t know why you did this, lady.” Colt shook his head disgustedly. “Or why your boyfriend left you and took off with the money. But if you live, you’ve got a hell of a lot of explainin’ to do. And somehow I don’t think the townspeople of Karlsburg will understand your need to rob stagecoaches or terrorize pregnant women.”
The ranch looked deserted when Colt rode into the yard. Only a few scraggly chickens greeted their arrival. No cowboys were about performing their duties, and from the looks of things, none had been employed in some time. He wondered what or who he’d find in the house. Did the girl have parents? Or a guardian? If so, they were certainly lax in exercising their authority.
The house was the usual log structure one expected to see in this section of Texas but much larger than most. Colt reckoned that at one time this spread must have been quite prosperous. But now everything looked badly neglected and in need of repair. The outside of the house was peeling, and large chunks of mud caulking had disintegrated into fine dust.
Colt dismounted awkwardly, still supporting Sam’s unconscious form, and carefully negotiated the three steps to the wide front porch. Kicking the door open, he entered the house and found himself facing the business end of an old-fashioned muzzle-loading shotgun held in the trembling hands of an aging Mexican.
“What have you done to Senorita Samantha?” the old man demanded.
Samantha. So that was her name. “Your Senorita Samantha has been wounded. Did you know she held up the stagecoach along with an accomplice? A large amount of gold intended for the bank in Karlsburg is missin’.”
“Madre mia! I never thought she would go so far.”
“Who are you?” Colt asked.
“Sanchez. I am the only one left on the Circle H.”
“Well, Sanchez, if you have fond feelin’s for this young bandit, put down that gun and show me where to take her and I’ll attempt to save her life. She’s already lost more blood than she can spare.”
The weapon in Sanchez’s hands wavered, then shifted to point to a hallway, leading, Colt assumed, to the bedrooms. “First door on the right, Senor. What can I do to help?”
“Have you ever taken out a bullet, Sanchez?” Colt threw over his shoulder as he carried Sam inside the obviously feminine room and placed her in the center of the bed.
“Many times, Senor,” Sanchez allowed, “but not since I have grown too old and crippled to hold a knife.” He followed Colt into the bedroom and held his hands out for inspection. Besides being misshapen by arthritis, they were shaking so badly it was obvious he would be of little help.
“Then bring boilin’ water. Plenty of it. And a basin, and towels, whiskey and soap. I shot her, so I reckon it’s up to me to save her.”
“You shot Senorita Sam?” Sanchez gasped, swinging the gun around to point it at Colt.
“Put that damn thing down and follow orders. If you kill me, who will remove the bullet? There’s no time to go to Karlsburg for a doctor. The water, Sanchez, hurry. And don’t forget a needle and thread.”
Coming to a decision, Sanchez leaned the gun against the door, nodded to Colt, and scurried out the door in the shuffling gait of a man in pain. Immediately Colt turned his attention to the mud-splattered girl lying pale and motionless on the bed.
First Colt removed her oversize jacket which had no doubt been meant to disguise her feminine curves. Moving his hands to the buttons on her checkered shirt, he carefully peeled the blood-soaked garment from her shoulders, earning a groan from her bloodless lips as he raised her to slide her arms out. The sight that met his tawny eyes turned them to glittering golden slits.
He had thought her a half-formed schoolgirl, but her generously proportioned breasts crowned by dusty rose nipples were hardly childlike. Samantha, or Sam as she was called, obviously was a woman full grown. One fully responsible for the crime she had just committed. Despite the familiar tightening in his loins, Colt deliberately turned his eyes away from those tempting forbidden fruits and concentrated instead on her wound.
Lifting the blood-encrusted kerchief he had used to stanch the blood, Colt saw at a glance that the bullet was still embedded in her chest. He’d hoped it had gone cleanly through, leaving a neat hole, but that hadn’t been the case. The bullet had to come out, and mere was no one to do it but him.
“What are you doing?” Sanchez had just reentered the room with a stack of towels, soap, whiskey, and a basin. “You’ve removed Senorita Sam’s clothes.” His voice held a strong hint of reproach and his face was filled with indignation.
“Christ, Sanchez, I can’t take the bullet out with her clothes in the way. Either do it yourself or let me do what has to be done.”
Muttering in Spanish beneath his bream, Sanchez shambled out of the room, returning moments later with a kettle of boiling water. Colt retrieved a long, slim knife from his boot, dropped it in the basin, and poured the boiling water over it. He let it sit a few minutes and men carefully removed it and plunged
his hands into the water, scrubbing vigorously with the bar of lye soap. He had seen too many men die of infection in the war to discount cleanliness when it came to open wounds. He didn’t want to touch Sam’s pristine flesh with filthy hands and dirty fingernails. Then, to Sanchez’s surprise, he poured whiskey over the knife, his hands, and the wound in Sam’s chest. She jerked violently but did not awaken.
“What can I do, Senor?”
“She’s goin’ to start thrashin’ around when I probe for the bullet,” Colt said. “You can help by holdin’ her down.”
“Si,” Sanchez nodded grimly. “Senorita Sam is very brave, she will live.”
“She’s also very foolish,” Colt muttered darkly. “If you’re ready, I’ll begin.”
His hand steady on the knife, Colt started the delicate operation as he probed ruthlessly into Sam’s tender flesh. Deep in unconsciousness, Sam felt the pain and reacted violently. But Sanchez was ready, his gnarled hands somehow finding the strength to hold her narrow shoulders pinned to the bed. Her head thrashed from side to side, and she screamed once, twice, then went still.
“Is she dead?” Sanchez asked fearfully.
“No, but she’s in shock,” Colt noted, wiping at the beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.
“Have you found the bullet, Senor?”
“No, dammit. Can you wipe away some of this sweat, Sanchez? I can barely see what I’m doin’.”
No longer needed for the previous task Colt had set for him, Sanchez complied.
“There it is, I found it!” Colt shouted, elated as the tip of his knife scraped against the metal ball. “It’s lodged against the breastbone.”
Carefully, his hands shaking with the strain, Colt pried the bullet out of the wound. When it was visible to the eye, he used his fingers to lift it free, dropping it in the basin.
“It’s done.” Colt sagged wearily, staring at the gaping hole in Sam’s chest.
She looked so innocent lying there. Innocent and vulnerable. He had probably saved her life, yet duty dictated he must turn her over to the sheriff in Karlsburg once she was well enough to travel. Perhaps it would have been kinder to let her the. Well, it was done. He had only to finish up and watch carefully for infection. The next thirty-six hours would be crucial.
Reaching for the whiskey, Colt poured a liberal dose into the wound, then took up needle and thread and made a few clumsy stitches to hold the edges together. He finished by preparing a thick bandage and holding it in place with strips of cloth wound about Sam’s chest.
“Bring more water, Sanchez,” Colt directed tiredly. “I need to get her cleaned up.”
“Where did you learn to do that, Senor?” Sanchez asked, gesturing toward Sam’s neatly bandaged chest.
“When you’ve bummed around as long as I have you learn many things,” Colt said wryly, not wanting to go into details. The truth was that one of his duties in the Mexican War had been assisting the surgeon. After the war ended he’d considered studying medicine until he found his parents brutally murdered and his sister missing. That incident had changed the fabric of his entire life.
Once Sanchez had refilled the basin and left to prepare a broth from the squirrel he had shot that morning, Colt set to work cleaning Sam’s mud-splattered body. The first thing he did was remove her boots and pants. Tawny eyes widened appreciatively as he bared long, slender thighs, shapely calves, and trim ankles. But what really drew his attention was the jet black forest crowning the vee between her legs. Judging from her ample proportions, Colt assumed her to be over eighteen. He couldn’t help wondering about her accomplice and if they were lovers. He’d ask Sanchez about it later, but unless Sam was isolated from civilization, her body was too lush, too developed for her to be an untouched virgin. Perhaps he …
“Don’t even think it,” Colt muttered aloud, mentally chiding himself for his erotic thoughts about the female bandit he had unknowingly shot and nearly killed. He had a job to do, a town to defend, an oath to uphold. Colt was astute enough to realize this woman meant trouble, and in any event she’d soon be behind bars where she belonged. Once she revealed where her partner had gone with the money, he’d turn them both over to the sheriff. The sooner he was rid of the treacherous little beauty, the better he’d like it. Colt sensed in her a threat—a threat to his independence, his freedom, his very existence.
Shaking his tawny head to rid himself of thoughts that could only bring him woe, Colt set his mouth in grim lines and began bathing Sam’s face and body. So beautiful, he thought distractedly when her face was shiny clean.
The tangled mass of black hair was long and straight, accentuating high cheekbones and golden skin. The contrast of tan skin and ebony hair was startling. It surprised Colt that her flesh was golden all over, not just where her exposed parts had been kissed by the sun. She had a lovely mouth, full-lipped and red—enticing enough to make him want to taste the sweet nectar within. With firm resolve and a tiny bit of reluctance, Colt pulled the sheet over Sam’s clean body and left the room. There was much he wanted to know about the wounded girl lying in the bed. Information only Sanchez could supply.
Chapter Two
Her name is Samantha Howard,” Sanchez revealed grudgingly. If this gringo meant harm to either Senorita Sam or Will, he would volunteer nothing substantial. “She is twenty years old.”
“Where are her parents?”
“Dead.”
“A guardian?”
“No one. Her father was killed by the Crowder gang six months ago. Her mother thed long before that.”
“Does no one else live here on the ranch?”
“There’s no one left but me and W—just me,” Sanchez amended. “Who are you, Senor? Why did you shoot Senorita Sam? She is a good girl.”
Colt snorted derisively. “I hadn’t the slightest inklin’ the bandit I shot was a woman,” Colt defended stoutly. “She robbed the stagecoach and I went after her. My name is Colt…Andrews,” he improvised, choosing the last name he had used during the years he drifted from place to place. Somehow, using his real name had seemed an insult to his parents. “I’m a Texas Ranger. I was ridin’ the stage from San Antonio when a holdup occurred. Two bandits escaped with a considerable amount of gold. Imagine my shock when the one I shot turned out to be a woman! What do you know about her pardner? I’m almost certain the one that got away was male.”
“Nothing, Senor, I know nothing,” Sanchez returned quickly. Almost too quickly. “Senorita Sam told me nothing. She knew I would disapprove.”
“Did she have a…friend who might have talked her into this dang fool idea? Whatever possessed her to pull a dangerous and foolhardy stunt like that?”
“You’ll have to ask Senorita Sam,” Sanchez insisted staunchly, clamping his mouth shut. “It’s not for me to say.” Fiercely loyal, Sanchez refused to say a word against the young woman he had known since her birth. There were even things Senorita Sam didn’t know about herself. Things he had promised Senor Howard he would never divulge. “What do you intend to do with her?”
“As soon as she’s recovered—if she recovers,” Colt added ominously—“I intend to learn the identity of her pardner and recover the gold. They’ll both be turned over to the sheriff in Karlsburg.”
“No, Senor Colt, I beg you. Not that. Senorita Sam could be sent to prison. Or worse, if Sheriff Bauer has his way. He is one mean hombre.”
“She should have thought of that before she tried anythin’ so reckless.” Colt scowled, wondering what the old Mexican had meant by his last remark about Sheriff Bauer. “What made her do such a thing?”
Sanchez knew exactly why Sam robbed the stage but held firm to his resolve to divulge nothing to this fierce Texas devil. “I am an old man, Senor, and the years have taught me to mind my own business.”
Snorting in disgust, Colt replied, “You’re doin’ Sam no favor by remainin’ mute. No matter. One way or another I will have the truth—and the gold. I’m hungry, Sanchez, rustle me up some grub.”
Twenty-four hours later Samantha returned to the world of the living. Surprisingly, her wound remained infection-free, and, though still gravely ill, she had not suffered extensively from fever.
Huge violet eyes reacted slowly to the relentless stab of sunlight upon weighted lids, and with difficulty Sam clawed her way through layers of suffocating cotton into stark reality. She blinked repeatedly until the mist before her eyes cleared and a rather startling image came into focus.
Lounging against the doorframe, hands laced across his flat, buckskin-clad stomach, one long leg crossed in front of the other, a tall, slim man stood looking directly at her. His thick hair was sun-streaked tawny gold. His nose was straight and bold, his mouth full and sensual. In one lazy motion he pushed himself away from the door, gliding to her bedside with catlike grace and a hip-rolling stride. At close range his golden brown eyes appeared liquid and shiny. For some reason this intriguing stranger looked vaguely familiar. Was he a friend of Will’s? And what was he doing in her bedroom? Had he named himself the devil, Sam wouldn’t have been shocked, for an aura of something dark and mysterious surrounded him.
A sudden untoward movement sent shards of agonizing pain knifing across her upper body. She struggled to sit up, unaware that her motions caused the sheet to drop around her waist, baring breasts the color of rich cream tipped with dusty coral.
“Hellfire and damnation, I hurt,” Sam moaned, tears springing to those incredible violet eyes. Colt felt as if he could lose himself in their mysterious velvet depths forever. “What happened? Who are you?”
“Don’t you remember?” Colt asked cautiously. No answer, just a wide, innocent stare that completely unnerved him. “Lay back, you’ve been wounded.” With gentleness rare in a man of his calling, he pressed her back against the pillow. “You’re a mighty sick gal and damn lucky to be alive.”
