Wild Is My Heart

by Connie Mason

  Thoughtfully leaving a lamp burning for Laura, Sam wandered into her bedroom, undressing almost immediately after the door closed behind her. She had gotten no further than her shirt when the stillness of the night was shattered by gunfire.

  “Good God!” cried Sam, jerking her arms into her shirtsleeves and rushing from the room.

  A terrible premonition turned her legs to rubber as she staggered outside. Heading toward the bunk-house, she nearly tripped over a prone form sprawled in the dirt. Realizing at once what it was, Sam screamed. Suddenly she was surrounded by light and faces.

  “Jesus, it’s Blake!” someone shouted, holding a lamp high in the air. “Some bastard ambushed him.”

  “What is it?” This came from Jake who had just arrived with Laura in tow.

  “Someone gunned down Blake, boss.”

  “Who saw it?”

  All eyes swung to Sam. Shock suspended her senses, rendering her unable to move or speak. Jake had to shake her gently before reason returned.

  “Sam, did you see who did this?”

  “N … no,” Sam stuttered, mesmerized by the pool of blood congealing beneath Jim’s body. “Is he dead?”

  “He’s alive—barely.” This came from a cowboy kneeling at Jim’s side.

  “Get him inside,” Jake barked. “Easy does it. Someone get Sanchez, he has some experience with things like this.”

  “I’m here, Senor.” Sanchez stepped forward, following on the heels of the men carrying Jim into the house. With stricken eyes Sam watched the lifeblood flow from Jim’s body, somehow feeling responsible.

  “What happened, Sam?” Will appeared beside Sam, lending her a supporting arm.

  “I… I don’t know,” Sam quavered, still in shock. “Jim had just left the house when I heard the shot. Who would shoot him?”

  “The man is a Ranger, Sam,” Will said with keen perception. “He must have dozens of enemies.” Of the ranch hands, only Will knew Jim’s true identity.

  Jim hovered on the brink of death, the bullet having lodged just inches below his heart. Crippled by age, Sanchez’s hands shook too badly to attempt delicate surgery, so one of the men rode hell for leather into town for the doctor. In the meantime all Sam could do was stop the bleeding. When the doctor finally arrived, the bullet was removed successfully, but Jim was in grave danger of losing his life. It was now up to God whether Jim lived or thed.

  The doctor held out little hope that Jim would survive the fever that would surely strike, and before he left provided a vial of laudanum to keep him sedated and immobile. When the fever raged through Jim’s body, Sam sat helplessly by, wringing her hands and praying. It was Laura who took things out of God’s hands and into her own. Scouring the woods the next morning, Laura found the ingredients to brew an infusion of herbs according to her knowledge of Indian remedies, which she spooned with great patience into Jim’s mouth. In a matter of hours the fever broke and a glimmer of hope rose in Sam’s breast.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Much to everyone’s surprise, Jim survived the odds and slowly but surely began to mend. He remained comatose for a week, then suddenly opened his eyes one day, managing a weak smile at Sam who, along with Laura, had been taking turns tending him. That day marked his steady but slow progress toward full recovery. Then something happened to send Sam’s world plummeting.

  Shortly after Jim regained his senses, a stranger arrived at the ranch. Covered with road dust, trail weary and clearly distressed, the man asked for Jim Blake. When informed Jim was gravely ill, the stranger became distraught.

  “I gotta speak with Blake, ma’am,” the man insisted grimly. “I’m carryin’ a message … from a friend.”

  “I told you,” Sam replied, equally determined, “Jim is still very ill. Whoever you are you’ll have to deal with me.”

  A flash of anger hardened the man’s weathered features. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but you’re a woman. I need to speak with a man.” Sam’s implacable expression brought a curse to the man’s lips. “Dammit, a man’s life is at stake!”

  Suddenly all Sam’s senses came alive, each nerve ending tingling in warning. “A man’s life?” she whispered, clutching at her throat. “What man? Please, tell me his name.”

  “As I mentioned before, you’re—”

  “It’s Colt! Something has happened to Colt! Oh, God, he’s dead.”

  “No, no, he ain’t dead, but he will be if you don’t let me talk to Blake. My name is Phil Smith, I’m a friend of Colt’s. He’s hurt, hurt bad. I figured Blake would know what to do. I’m afeared if Colt ain’t seen to soon he’ll die.”

  “What happened?” Sam choked out, dazed.

  “The Crowders. Colt was ambushed near the Mexican border, shot and left for dead. It’s a miracle he survived this long—if he’s still alive.”

  “Has Colt been treated by a doctor in Laredo?” Sam asked with rising panic.

  “There ain’t no doctor in Laredo, ma’am. Not since old Doc Foley drank himself to death. I dug out the bullet but it looks bad. Colt told me all about his partner workin’ in Karlsburg and I figured he’d know what to do. When I didn’t find Blake in town I asked at the Palace Saloon, and the owner told me I might find him out here. Are you certain I can’t talk to Blake?” Sam nodded, bereft of speech.

  “After Colt was shot he kept callin’ out for someone named Sam. Is he around? Mayhap I can talk to him. Seems like I recall Colt askin’ for his wife. Do you know where I might find her? ‘Pears to me a man oughta not die without kith or kin to give him comfort in his final hours.”

  A strangled cry escaped Sam’s lips; lips that were suddenly bloodless. Colt die? No! He was too vital, too alive to die an ignominious death in some godforsaken town. “I’m Sam,” she said at length. “I’m Colt’s … wife. And I’m afraid if you tell your story to Jim Blake it will do more harm than good. He was shot several days ago and still isn’t out of the woods. This kind of news will surely cause a relapse. Besides, he can help no one in his condition.”

  Lines of weariness etched Phil’s face, making him appear much older than his forty-five years. “Then that’s it,” he said flatly, sagging in defeat. “I come all this way for nothin’.”

  “I won’t let Colt die!” Sam raged determinedly. “Jim can’t help, but I can. If you’ll guide me, Mr. Smith, we can leave immediately.” She was afraid to wait until Jake and the boys returned from the range, for Jake surely would go by himself and insist she remain home.

  Phil Smith stared at Sam a full minute before reaching a decision. He had met Colt in Laredo under less than favorable circumstances, but against all odds they had become friends. A drifter and loner, Smith was about to have his neck stretched for cattle rustling when Colt stepped in to stop the hanging. Smith was guilty of many things, but this time it was a clear case of mistaken identity, which thankfully Colt had been able to prove. Smith had been mistakenly identified as one of the Crowders.

  Eternally grateful, Smith had taken it upon himself to become Colt’s guardian angel. When Colt failed to return to Laredo one day after a trip across the border to check on the Crowders, it was Smith who rode out in search of him. And Smith who found him near death on a lonely stretch of desert. When the ride back failed to do Colt in, and Smith’s crude probing for the bullet did not kill him, Smith left him with Lola, a whore from the cantina. Then he set out for help, leaving enough money for Colt’s care to last until his return. If Sam was indeed Colt’s wife, then Phil reckoned she deserved to be with her husband at the end.

  “I’ll take you to your man, Miz Andrews,” Smith said somewhat reluctantly.

  “The bunkhouse is behind you, Mr. Smith, tell Sanchez to feed you. The ranch hands are branding strays today and won’t be in till dark. I’ll be ready in an hour if you feel up to traveling so soon.”

  “I’m game if you are,” Phil returned, “but it ain’t gonna be easy for a woman. I’ll sleep in the saddle if need be. It’s a far piece to Laredo, and Colt could be �
� well,” he shrugged, “we won’t know till we get there.”

  “I’ll manage, Mr. Smith,” Sam said tightly. And she would, no matter what it took.

  “You can’t mean to go alone with a complete stranger,” Laura cried, distraught. It was bad enough learning about Colt, but discovering that Sam intended to leave without informing Jake, and with a man she knew nothing about, was too much. “The man could be lying. It could be a trap. Please, at least wait for Jake.”

  “There’s no time, Laura. Colt needs me.”

  “Then I’m going with you,” Laura insisted stubbornly.

  “No, someone has to stay here to care for Jim,” Sam contended. “I’ll be all right, truly. I believe Mr. Smith is telling the truth. Colt’s life might depend on my ability to reach him as quickly as possible. Please don’t worry, Laura.”

  Sam was glad neither Laura nor Jim knew about the baby, for there would be the devil to pay.

  Seeing that her words were having little effect on Sam and that she meant to go anyway, Laura produced several packets of medicinal herbs, which Sam carefully packed along with a few necessities in a saddlebag. Then Sam joined Smith at the remuda, where they selected horses for the trip. Smith’s mount was so worn out he could not have lasted the return journey. Without telling Jim what she intended, and extracting a promise from Laura to keep him in bed at all costs, Sam rode out with Smith, heading directly south toward the border town of Laredo.

  The journey took four days of hard riding; riding until Sam’s backside was a mass of bruises and every bone in her body ached; riding until the insides of her thighs felt like raw meat. Through it all Smith remained a perfect gentleman, given his calling. He spoke in glowing terms of Colt, carefully omitting any mention of his own colorful past. Mostly, though, they rode in silence, each to their thoughts.

  What would she do if she arrived too late? Sam worried despondently. No, she mustn’t think about that. Wouldn’t she feel it in her heart if Colt were already dead? Those times spent in his arms had been pure rapture. Whether Colt meant it to be that way or not, she found him to be a tender and considerate lover, careful to give her as much pleasure as she gave him. She often thought God meant for them to be together—until the truth about her mixed blood earned her Colt’s contempt. Even then he still desired her, still seemed incapable of letting her go. It surprised Sam that Colt had told Smith he had a wife. Surely that meant he cared a little, didn’t it?

  But even if Colt hated her, Sam reflected, it made little difference, she would still rush to his aid. Her own love was strong enough for both of them.

  During the long, exhausting days Sam thought often of the baby growing beneath her heart. Colt’s baby. She loved it already though it was still a tiny being within her. It mattered little to Sam that Colt didn’t want a child with her, for he would never know. Once she nursed him back to health she fully intended to disappear from his life. She had also come to a decision about Will. He was happy on the ranch, and Sam decided to allow him to remain. Eventually she’d communicate with Will but not tell him her whereabouts until he had grown up and could accept her as an unwed woman with a child. Marrying Jim would solve that problem but in so doing create others, and Sam rejected that solution immediately.

  It was dusk when Sam and Smith rode into Laredo. The dusty border town offered few amenities and Sam’s thoughts of a hot bath to soothe her sore backside fled as Smith led her toward a small, dingy cantina located on the main thoroughfare.

  “You left Colt in this place?” Sam asked, horrified.

  “I had no choice, Miz Andrews,” Smith apologized. “Colt took a room at the cantina when he arrived and there was nowhere else to take him. I was lucky to find Lola to look after him. Nearly all the women in Laredo are whores—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am—and Lola is a mite cleaner than most. She promised to see to Colt’s needs till I returned with help.”

  “Let’s hurry, then, Mr. Smith,” Sam urged, despairing of what she’d find. It was worse than she expected.

  Colt lay on a tangled heap of dirty bed linen, the heat and stench nearly gagging Sam. He was naked and a blood-soaked bandage badly in need of changing covered his stomach. Flies buzzed around his head and angry red mosquito bites dotted his flesh. He lay so still that at first Sam feared he was dead, until the steady rise and fall of his chest instilled her with hope. He looked sadly neglected, and a foul curse left Smith’s lips as Sam pushed through the door to kneel at Colt’s side.

  Sam’s small cry of distress brought the first response from Colt she had noted since entering the tiny, airless room.

  Colt’s eyes cranked open, their normal golden depths muddy brown and glazed with fever. A parody of a smile curved one corner of his mourn into a grimace of pain as recognition lit his eyes. His cracked lips moved and Sam had to lower his head in order to hear his words.

  “Violet Eyes.”

  A sob tore at Sam’s throat when his lids slid shut again and a sigh slipped past his parched lips.

  “Water, Mr. Smith, hurry!” Sam ordered crisply, immediately taking charge. “Plenty of hot water first and clean cloths, if there is such a thing in this den of filth. Then cold water, lots of it. I won’t let Colt die. I won’t!”

  Six hours later Colt rested more comfortably on clean sheets, though he had stirred little during Sam’s ministrations. She had washed Colt’s sweat-soaked body with hot water, soaked off the blood-encrusted bandage, and thoroughly examined the ugly wound on the upper left side of his stomach. It appeared that no vital organs had been damaged, but the loss of blood had been considerable. The wound was a raw, gaping hole that needed tending immediately if Colt were to survive. His entire body burned with fever, and white pus oozed freely from his wound. It was obvious Lola had done little to earn the money Smith had left for Colt’s care. Sam fully intended to give Lola a verbal lashing, but caring for Colt consumed all her time and energy.

  With Smith holding down Colt’s emaciated form, Sam replaced the filthy bandage, spread a healing salve provided by Laura, and wound a clean cloth around his torso, fastening it snugly in place. From somewhere Smith had produced clean sheets and together they changed the soiled linen. Then Sam painstakingly spooned an infusion of herbs, also provided by Laura to reduce the fever and combat infection. Afterwards Smith went to his own rest while Sam spent the night sponging Colt with cold water when his temperature rose dangerously and shooing away flies and mosquitos.

  From the cantina came sounds of revelry, men’s rauctous laughter and women’s shrill voices raised in flirtatious invitation. A continual procession of footsteps echoed in the hallway as well as soft titters and gruff replies.

  During the long night Sam had more than sufficient time to study Colt and fret over his deplorable condition. Had he been properly cared for from the beginning it might have made a world of difference in his recovery. His strong constitution and superb physical condition were probably what saved his life. He was so thin it was obvious little effort had been made to feed him. Serious loss of blood and infection had combined to lay waste his once magnificent body. His face was gaunt and white beneath the two-week growth of beard, contrasting sharply with the deep tan of his chest. His tawny mane of hair lay flat against his scalp, and the sharp angles of his cheeks stretched the skin taut across his face. He was still the handsomest man Sam had ever seen.

  Sam prayed fervently that night for Colt’s recovery, knowing it was still touch and go. Only a strong will to live could pull him through, she thought as she knelt at his bedside. Perhaps if she could get through to him … The thought was riveting and she acted on it immediately.

  “Colt, don’t die!” she begged, her voice ragged with emotion. “Please don’t die. I need you. Our child needs you. Please live for our baby.”

  Did Colt hear her? Did he understand? Wanting to believe, Sam thought he did for his thrashing ceased and his breathing became less ragged. Though Sam wasn’t entirely certain Colt knew she was here, she hoped her words had helpe
d.

  From somewhere in the cantina Smith produced a plate of beans and tortillas for Sam’s breakfast the next morning, along with a cup of strong steaming coffee. Though it didn’t set too well on her delicate stomach, the food was nevertheless nourishing and somehow she managed to keep it down. It took more ingenuity to provide something suitable for Colt to eat. About noon Smith returned bearing a bowl of chicken broth, a not inconsiderable feat given the circumstances, and Sam patiently fed Colt nearly the whole bowlful before his throat refused to swallow the last drop. When he was once more resting comfortably, Sam finally succumbed to Smith’s urging and accepted the offer of his room to sleep and refresh herself. Whatever Colt had done for the man, Sam reflected, he was being amply repaid by the man’s loyalty.

  After a bath and a change of clothes, Sam felt almost human again. Knowing that Smith would inform her of any change in Colt’s condition, she collapsed on the bed and slid instantly into a deep, dreamless, sleep.

  The next day Lola made an appearance in Colt’s room. Hips swaying seductively, shiny ebony hair tossed carelessly over bare shoulders the shade of deep gold, black eyes alert and snapping, she boldly entered the room to stare rudely at Sam.

  “He told me he had a wife but I did not believe him,” Lola stated, her pouting red lips accusing.

  “Who are you?” Sam really didn’t need to be told that the girl was Lola.

  “I am Lola,” the girl replied, moving to stand beside Colt. She appeared to be about Sam’s age or younger.

  Lola was outrageously beautiful with smooth tan skin the texture of velvet, slanting brows over almond-shaped eyes surrounded by thick black lashes, and provocative mouth. Her flirting eyes gave mute testimony to her calling. A knowing hardness reflected in those ebony orbs, and a cynical awareness lingered at the corners of her wide lips.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed dangerously. This was the woman who had allowed Colt to wallow in filth and neglect despite the fact she’d been amply paid to care for him. “Hellfire and damnation! How could you allow my husband to suffer under your careless tending?” she rounded on the beautiful Mexican. “I found him lying in his own filth. You deserve a beating and I just might give it to you.”