Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three

by Jane Bonander

  A ghastly, rotten-toothed grin split Che’s lips. “Oh, it is what I want, mi amigo. The only thing is,” he added, his expression guarded, “I don’t know if I really trust you.”

  Buck put the flask to his lips and kept it there for a long while, yet allowing only a small trickle of whiskey to enter his mouth. He pulled it away and forced a belch. “What do I have to do to prove I’m on your side?” You stupid asshole.

  Che scratched his crotch, then wiped his face on the back of his shirtsleeve. “I think … I think you will take the woman.”

  A cool surge of panic broke into Buck’s face. He pretended ignorance. “I already said I would take her back to—”

  “No, no, fool,” Che said with a lecherous laugh. “You will mount her. Here. And we will watch.”

  Showing his anger, he spat indignantly into the fire, sending a sizzle of smoke into the night sky. “Buck Randall doesn’t perform in front of anybody.”

  “But, senor, if you do not, then I won’t believe you,” Che answered silkily. “Those are my terms.”

  Buck studied Che’s expression. Damn those Mexicans. They could act stupid and ignorant, but beneath it all, they were sly and crafty. He’d be a fool to underestimate them.

  He took a swig of whiskey, more than he’d planned to. He fought the pleasure it gave him. “I have no trouble screwing the bitch,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing. “But I’ve already seen what you’ve done to her.” He pumped out his chest. “You’ve got her staked out like an animal hide.” He leered at Che. “I like my women to have a little bit of fight in them.”

  Che grinned his rotten-toothed grin. “Si. I know what you mean.” He leaned toward Buck conspiratorially. “Let her bite and scratch a little, so you can slap her around, eh?”

  Buck nearly smashed in Che’s few remaining teeth. “Exactly,” he answered, his jaw so tight he could hardly speak.

  “Hector! Release the woman.”

  “Another thing,” Buck added. “I want the woman blindfolded. And I repeat, no one will watch.” He stood, giving Che a hard stare.

  Che snickered. “Blindfolded? Si, so she will not recognize you.” He pulled a grimace and shook his head. “But maybe she thinks it is one of us. I don’t like that, mi amigo.”

  Buck forced himself to smile. “Those are my terms, mi amigo,” he said, trying to keep the scorn from his voice. “And, I repeat, no one will watch.”

  Che frowned. “Then, how will we know you do it, senor?”

  “You’ll just have to listen, and use your friggin’ imagination,” Buck growled, fast losing patience.

  Che looked at his men, pulled in a deep breath, then gazed back at Buck, his foul grin returning. “Make it nice and loud,” he said with a lewd smirk. “My men, they do not have much imagination.”

  Buck held back an audible sigh of relief. Pretending a confidence he didn’t have, he capped the whiskey flask and followed Che to the cave.

  Molly swallowed her panic as Hector stood over her, ogling her like he always did. Cringing inwardly, she held his gaze, although she felt her body betray her as deep inside, she began to shake.

  He squatted down beside her and moved his hands over her breasts, tweaking the nipples so hard she gasped.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. This was it. They’d waited long enough. It would be Hector. Bile burned her mouth, and she swallowed, feeling the burn in her throat. His big, dirty hand traveled down her stomach and over her mound, pausing there. If she were being eaten alive by ants, she couldn’t possibly feel any worse.

  She twisted against her bindings and screamed, refusing to go quietly.

  Suddenly someone shouted Hector’s name from outside the cave. He spewed something in guttural Spanish, then proceeded to untie her bindings.

  Puzzled, Molly watched him free her. When he’d finished, not caring why, she quickly scooted to the back of the cave, cowering there like caged prey. She wasn’t prepared for what he did next. With an evil laugh, he went to the entrance of the cave, gave her an offensive once-over, then left.

  She sagged against the wall. So, it wouldn’t be Hector after all. The thought should have brought her some relief, but it didn’t. Her teeth clattered with fear as she clumsily stepped into her filthy, dusty drawers. Something was happening. She’d never been untied during the night before. She hadn’t realized how comfortable she’d become with the procedure. At first she’d been frightened, then, when nights went by and nothing happened, she’d begun to relax, accepting it as routine.

  But now … Shuddering wildly, she tried to tie the strings of her drawers together, but her broken wrist was useless, and her other hand was still numb from the bindings. She glanced up at the cave entry, and her heart plunged, leaving a cold emptiness in her chest as Blanca and the other camp whore stepped inside.

  “Blanca. What … what’s happening?”

  Before there was time for an answer, the other whore held Molly’s arms behind her back while Blanca tied a bandanna around her head, covering her eyes. Panicked, Molly fought.

  She was slapped so hard across the face, she stumbled backward, against the other woman. She fought for breath, then began breathing so rapidly she felt dizzy. Suddenly, she remembered with clarity Che telling her all of the ways they had of torturing white women. Hell and damnation, she wasn’t going without a fight.

  She kicked backward violently, feeling avenged when the whore shouted and cursed at her. Suddenly hard, firm hands were on her shoulders, and she was being pressed back, toward the ground. Her arms were free, but her injured wrist throbbed. She tried to fend off her attacker with her good arm, pounding, punching and scratching.

  Her fingernails found his face, and she dug in and pulled down the length of his cheek. He cursed at her, throwing his leg over her to hold her down and pinning both arms over her head.

  “No!” She bucked against him, kicking at him with her bare feet as he pressed his long, hard body on top of her.

  She felt his hand at the waist of her drawers and he tugged, tearing the fabric away. She screamed, pummeling his back with her heels. He came closer; she could feel moisture from his breath on her cheek. With as much force as she could muster, she spit at him.

  His mouth was at her ear; she could feel his hot, vile breath. “Goddammit it, brat,” he whispered, “I’m trying to save your worthless life.”

  She tried to catch her breath, gasping wildly. Buck? For a moment, she stopped fighting as relief cascaded over her.

  “What … what are you doing?”

  “I said, I’m trying to save your life. Now fight me, and scream.”

  She fought, but only part of it was an act. She couldn’t see, and confusion tumbled over her fear. Everything seemed strange and unreal. “Get off me! Get off.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you, brat. But scream. Give me one damn, good scream!”

  She took a lungful of air and screamed her rage, fighting against him as though he were her worst enemy. She was so mad at him for scaring her to death, she wanted to kill him.

  His mouth was at her ear again. “I’m going to get you out of here. Now, dammit, whether you want to or not, do what I say. Do you understand me?”

  She boiled with fury, but her good sense forced her to nod in agreement.

  “I’m going to leave you for just a minute,” he whispered. “But you can’t take off the blindfold. Pretend you’ve fainted. You’ve got to make it look like I’ve raped you.”

  She panted beneath him, then suddenly tensed when he reached down and pulled off her drawers. “Wh—”

  “Shhh,” he hissed against her ear.

  Then she sensed he was gone. Every nerve and muscle in her body screamed to pull off the blindfold and crawl into her drawers again, but she waited, winded from the fight and her fear. It wasn’t long before she heard someone enter. She moaned, stirring on the ground, pretending to come around. Her blindfold was removed, and Blanca stood over her.

/>   “You are leaving,” she said tersely. She tossed Molly’s camisole and split skirt at her. “The man waits to take you back.”

  Molly lowered her gaze, biting the insides of her cheeks to keep from saying anything at all.

  Blanca watched her dress. “You are not curious about who takes you back to your man?”

  Molly clumsily tied the strings of her drawers together over the torn fabric. Her wrist ached, but she refused to ask for help. “What does it matter, as long as I get to leave?”

  Blanca snickered, giving her a lusty look. “I should be so lucky to go somewhere with the breed.”

  Molly pretended ignorance. “Breed?”

  “Senor Buck.”

  “Oh, him,” Molly said dully. Remember what the bastard said. “Is … is he the one who raped me?”

  Blanca gave her a wide-eyed innocent look. “Oh, someone rape you? Tsk. We know nothing of that.” She clucked her tongue again. “Oh, if that happened, we are truly so sorry, senorita. But we know nothing. Too bad,” she said, her mouth curving downward as she shook her head. “It was not one of our men, I can promise you. Be sure to say that to your man, Senor Campion. Our men did not rape you.”

  Molly gave Blanca a jaundiced look, noticing that she still wore her white linen blouse. Of course, the fabric was no longer distinguishable, and the color a dusty, dirty shade of red, but she would have appreciated having it back, nevertheless.

  “May I have my blouse back, Blanca?”

  Blanca looked down at her chest and pouted. “No, it’s mine now.”

  “How about my boots? Please?” The thought of traveling back to the ranch barefoot left much to be desired.

  “No,” Blanca answered lightly. “They are mine now, too.”

  Frowning, Molly pulled at the top of her camisole in the hopes of hiding some of her bosom. Realizing it was hopeless, she gave up and stepped into her split skirt, fastening it around her waist.

  “Here,” Blanca said.

  Molly looked up, noting that Blanca was untying the flimsy shawl from around her waist. She thrust it at her.

  “It is an exchange for what I took. No one calls Blanca a thief.”

  Molly murmured her thanks, took the shawl, and secured it around her shoulders. As she followed Blanca out into the night, she sucked in a deep breath, grateful to be rescued, but hating her rescuer with renewed vengeance.

  Nine

  Molly tried to shut out the pain in her wrist as she sat behind Buck, her good arm wrapped around his middle. She knew they probably should have waited for morning, but she was glad that Buck had insisted they leave right away. After all, Che could have changed his mind about letting them go. She was still madder than hell at the way Buck had chosen to rescue her. He didn’t know her at all. Had he expected that she’d give him away? Swoon? Get hysterical?

  “You could have told me it was you right away, Buck,” she groused. “I didn’t appreciate being scared out of my wits.”

  “Hell, how was I to know you’d draw blood?”

  “Well, what did you think I’d do? Lie there and let some savage barbarian rape me?”

  “You’re just damned lucky I convinced them not to watch.”

  She felt a flash of fear. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean? If they’d insisted on watching, I might have … might have …”

  His unfinished sentence was crystal clear. Good lord, if they’d insisted on watching … “Would you … Could you have done it?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Molly. I didn’t have to make that decision, now did I?”

  She mouthed a prayer of thanks. Heaven, hell and purgatory, she’d really gotten herself into a mess this time. She glanced over his shoulder, into the black night. Although she’d never admit it out loud, she felt safe out on a lonely prairie in the black of night with Buck.

  His horse moved slowly over the dark, dry ground. Travel at night was dangerous. She’d learned that even in the daytime, the plains, flat as they were, held treacherous secrets.

  Molly was exhausted, but knew she wouldn’t sleep. Her wrist still ached unbearably, and she couldn’t find a comfortable position for it. Pain shot up her shoulder and into her neck, but she steeled herself against it. It was a small price to pay. She was free! Nothing else mattered. The only thing that rankled was that, once again, Buck Randall was her savior. She should thank him for saving her, but she was still too angry at the way he’d done it.

  They rode for hours. She dozed, her head lolling against his back. When she awoke, the sun was just cresting the ridge, and the wind had picked up, pressing against them like a wide blanket of dust. Had they not been so close to the edge, the wind might have been cleaner, for very little dust was swept up on the plains themselves.

  Buck handed her a bandanna over his shoulder. She tried to tie it with her good hand and discovered she couldn’t. Pressing the scarf over her nose and her mouth, she held it in place with her good hand and leaned into Buck for balance. She felt shrouded in dust. Her eyes and nose were thick with it, and when she attempted to wet her lips, she was rewarded with a mouthful that quickly turned to grit between her teeth.

  Sometime during the early morning hours, they had doubled back, and were now pushing against the wind, moving even closer toward the ridge. The horse picked its way through some gnarled mesquite, beyond which was a gully—or arroyo. Buck stopped the animal and dismounted, then lifted Molly down.

  “We’re going down there,” he shouted into the tempest, pointing to the arroyo. “It’ll get us out of the wind.”

  She nodded and followed him, using her good arm and both feet to move down the rocky bank. The rocks bit into the soles of her feet, but she ignored the discomfort, anxious only to get out of the force of the gale. Her broken wrist throbbed incessantly, worse than a toothache. It was almost to the point where the pain had radiated to every part of her body. She ached all over.

  As she slid onto the sandy floor of the gully, she felt the wind die away. The ten-foot walls protected them from further buffeting. She stumbled, falling to her knees. She crumpled farther, her knees giving way, sending her flat on her fanny.

  Buck squatted beside her and unwrapped her wrist. “Is it broken?” At her nod, he asked, “How bad is it?”

  She stared at the black and purple discoloration that encircled her wrist. It looked dead, or like something close to it. “It hurts like bloody hell,” she mumbled, allowing him to examine it.

  He left her, only to return again with his saddlebags. “How long has it been broken?”

  She shivered against the pain, cradling her wrist with her hand. “It happened the day after they took me.” She shook her head, unable to remember how many days it had been. Funny, up until now, she’d known almost to the hour.

  He swore and dug deep into the bag, pulling out a packet of powder. “I think we should make a splint. We can use some of your underwear, and there ought to be some small pieces of wood around here somewhere.”

  “You’ve already made cleaning rags of my drawers,” she answered testily. “Now you want to rip up the rest of my underwear?” She looked down at her camisole, which was dirty, and brown with dust. Glancing up, she caught him staring at her bosom. A flood of heat crept into her cheeks. “There must be something else we can use.”

  He turned away. “I suppose we can use the tail of my shirt. It doesn’t matter.” He pulled out a tin cup, opened the packet of powder and shook some into the vessel. Then he uncapped a canteen and added water to the powder, swishing it around to dissolve it.

  She was so thirsty, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Might …” She swallowed. “Might I have a little of that?” She took the canteen from him and drank, enough to slake her thirst.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the cup.

  “What is it?”

  “Something to dull the pain and help you sleep.”

  She wanted to argue that
she didn’t need help, but the prospect of a few hours of blissful, pain-free sleep was too enticing. She drank, then allowed him to help her to his bedroll, which he’d laid out under a small outcropping of rocks.

  “Where will you sleep?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I have a blanket under my saddle.”

  Compared to what she’d been accustomed to during the past week, the bedroll was as good as a bed. She snuggled into the bedding and gazed up at him, the medicine already working in her empty stomach.

  He had pulled out his shirttail and ripped off a length. After rummaging through his saddlebags, he removed a stiff piece of rawhide. “I think this will work as a splint until we get you back to the ranch.” He hunkered down beside her and started to rewrap her wrist.

  Her pain was already subsiding. Giving him a lazy, sleepy yawn, she mused, “I guess I should thank you for rescuing me, but to be perfectly honest,” she added around another yawn, “I’d just as soon split your skull in two.”

  He shook his head, and a small grin cracked his mouth. “Now you sound like that wild fourteen-year-old kid, high on bad whiskey.”

  She snorted a little laugh as memories washed over her. Funny, they seemed almost pleasant now. Suddenly she wasn’t angry anymore, but she knew it was because of the medicine. In the morning, she could hate him again. “That sure was bad hooch. Bad, bad, bad.”

  “And we both drank enough to pickle a barrel of cucumbers,” he answered with his infamous smirk.

  She laughed again, snorting again. “Maybe if they’d been pickered …” The word didn’t sound right. “Pickered …” She gave him a questioning look.

  “Pickled,” he offered.

  “Right. Well, maybe if cucumbers had been pickled in whiskey, you would’ve liked ’em.”

  His God-given grin widened; his cow-made dimple deepened. “Maybe.”

  She truly did hate the man, but she loved the way he looked, even when he didn’t smile. All of a sudden, she wondered why she’d always been so angry with him. Her mind was fuzzy, but she knew there was a reason. Nothing made any sense right now. She snuggled deeper into the bedroll. Her arms and legs were loose; it felt as though she were floating. The throb in her wrist was dull, bearable. He finished her splint and continued to watch her.