She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. “And she died, what, an hour after that? So, what was your question, Heath? Oh, yes, does seeing these poor dead men lying on the ground bother me?” She wheeled her horse about. Over her shoulder, she spat out, “Not one damn bit!”
“The lady has a valid point.”
Heath whirled and drew on Jay, reminiscent of the scene on Mustang Mesa moments after he had seen Stevie for the first time. How long ago that seemed now. Jay looked different this time. “What the—” Heath exclaimed.
If he had not recognized Jay’s intelligent green eyes staring back at him from a face blackened with soot, he’d have shot his partner where he stood. To say that the gentleman from Georgia—who had given more than one fair maiden a fit of the vapors—looked disreputable would be a serious understatement.
And how had he blackened his teeth, making them look like decayed snags hanging precariously in a slack mouth? Heath wondered inanely. It was as if the gap-toothed smile mesmerized him. Heath shook free of the spell and sighed heavily. “What are you supposed to be?” he asked, holstering his gun.
“I’m supposed to be an undercover marshal. Which, if memory serves correctly, so are you. Why aren’t you in Adobe Wells getting shed of Judge Jack and that gang of cutthroats he’s surrounded by?”
Heath didn’t answer Jay’s question. Instead, he asked one of his own. “You’ve been in Adobe Wells? I thought you were hot on Rachel Jackson’s trail. She give you the slip again?”
“Yes and no. Yes, I was in Adobe Wells. But no, Rachel Jackson didn’t give me the slip.”
“You mean Rachel’s in Adobe Wells?”
Jay nodded.
“Damn! That’s all I need. How am I supposed to avoid her?”
“You won’t be able to. She’s up to her double chins in the judge’s diamond deal. ’Spect you’ll run into her soon as you hit town.”
Heath thought about the new obstacle to his job. Finally, he shrugged. He was so very weary, he didn’t need another complication. “Guess I’ll just have to convince her I’m on the other side of the law now.”
“With your charm and Rachel’s disposition you shouldn’t have any trouble with her,” Jay said, trying to wipe a layer of soot from his boyishly handsome face. “She always was a hot—” he began, shrugging. “Guess I’m still too much of a southern gentleman to say it. Suffice it to say that she’s rotten to the core. She actually asked the judge to have Marshal Reno killed. Might’ve been orderin’ a mint julep, for all the emotion in her voice.” He shook his head. “Reno’s so worthless, poor kid, I was tempted to shoot him m’self.”
Heath was well aware that Jay didn’t mean what he said about Ted. And he could tell his partner’s brush with Rachel had affected him more than he let on. Jay’s drawl always thickened when he was distraught. And it sounded like buttered molasses in January to Heath. “Please tell me he refused to kill the kid.”
Jay reassured Heath that the marshal was safe for the time being. Then he filled him in on the remainder of Judge Jack and Rachel’s plan. “So I’m on my way to warn Shackelford. Obviously, Rachel’s not goin’ anywhere till money changes hands. But just the same, keep an eye on her for me. Hear?”
Heath nodded, hiding a tired smile. When Jay said “hear,” it sounded like he’ah. He must be upset. “How do you plan to protect Shackelford without Jack knowing we’re on to him?”
“I don’t know.” He smiled and continued. “But I’ll think of something between here and Santa Fe.”
“I have no doubt that you will. Meantime, I’ll head on back to Adobe Wells, keep the marshal’s fat out of the fire, and deal with Rachel.” Then abruptly, he asked, “Do you have your grandfather’s watch?”
Jay looked at him suspiciously. Anybody who knew Jay Hampton knew that his granddaddy had given all three of his grandsons ornate pocket watches with their initials engraved on the back. He was never without it; none of them was. Sliding the expensive timepiece from his breeches pocket and handing it to Heath, he asked, “You wanta know the time of day, or you just got a hankerin’ for my property?”
“Neither. Rachel knows that you wouldn’t part with this while there was still life in your body. So I’m going to show it to her as proof that I got tired of working for pennies as a lawman”—his voice was dry, a twinkle lit his eyes—“and stole this from you after I put a few dozen bullets in your hide.”
Jay smiled his appreciation for Heath’s plan. It was simple enough to work. Still, he couldn’t help teasing Heath. “Nobody’ d believe that you could shoot me. I’m such a fine fella and all.”
“Somehow, I don’t think Rachel would agree. You did put her in jail once, and she has to know it’s only a matter of time before you do it again.”
“If you don’t let her get away.”
“I’ll keep my eye on her.”
Reassured, Jay said, “Do we have to bury these bastards?”
Heath glanced around at the corpses for the first time since he and Jay began speaking. “I’d let them rot where they lay, but if the army found them, there’d be hell to pay for every Indian north of the Rio Grande.”
Jay agreed. “I was afraid you’d see it that way.”
But the earth was too hard to penetrate with a shovel. So one by one they dragged the bodies to a deep ravine and sent them hurtling over the side of the cliff. They threw branches into the hole after them. Silently looking down, they were satisfied that the men would not be found.
Stretching his stiff neck, rotating it from side to side, Heath raised his gaze. The sun was low in the sky, casting a rosy glow over the mountains. A red veil draped from peak to peak. It looked like the whole world was tinted with blood. Sangre de Cristo—the blood of Christ—these mountains were aptly named, he decided.
Considering the bloodshed that had occurred in the past twenty-four hours, the name was even more apt. Not to mention the bloodshed that had occurred for the past several years, with whites attacking Indians, Indians raiding whites.
He was beset by a series of questions that seemed to have no answer. Where would the struggle end? With every renegade Indian dead or imprisoned on a reservation with the rest of the Comanche nation? And how long would the battle go on? How many innocents—like Stevie, Winter, the new baby, and even himself—would get caught up in it?
Genocide or freedom—which would be the Indians’ fate? Manifest destiny—the battle cry of the white masses.
Who would triumph? Who would lose? The answer was painfully clear. The Indians would lose in the end. But they would not give up easily. Admiration and sadness swept over Heath in equal measure.
As he bid Jay good-bye and made his way back to Stevie, he was sure he had never yearned for New York quite as much as he did now. But an even stronger motive for leaving the West was his desire to take Stevie home with him, to whisk her, the baby, and Winter away from this violent country, away from the racial war that would break Stevie’s gentle heart.
“What was it?” Erica asked as soon as Heath rode into the makeshift camp. She jerked her head in Stevie’s direction. “She wouldn’t say.”
Heath felt Stevie’s eyes on him. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. “A pair of jennies. Both had broken a leg. The owner put the animals out of their misery. But he was too lazy to bury them where scavengers couldn’t find them. I took care of it.”
Stevie exhaled, unaware that she had been holding her breath. “You buried them where they can’t be found?” The silent words “by the army,” hung in the air.
“Nobody will ever find them.”
Bored with the conversation, Erica moved over to her horse, rummaging around in her saddlebags for a hairbrush.
Heath’s eyes met Stevie’s. They looked at each other for a moment, communicating with their eyes. Understanding passed between them. The renegade band had dispensed its form of justice—killing the men who destroyed Gentle Fawn’s band of peaceful Comanches. They would not be hunted like animals and
executed for doing something that had to be done.
Stevie smiled tentatively at Heath and mouthed, “Thank you.”
He sketched a slight bow, his heart suddenly light. Stevie’s gentle smile could make his day. Dare he be so dramatic as to say that the lack of it could break his heart?
“Let’s go home,” he told her softly.
The gloaming cast a silver shadow over the threesome as they made their way back to Adobe Wells. Stevie and Heath both remembered their brief, beautiful stay in the majestic Sangre de Cristo mountains. In ways they could scarcely imagine, this idyllic time had changed them drastically, irrevocably.
They would realize in the days to come just how much. They would learn that they needed each other more than air to breathe, water to drink, or food to eat. And they would both realize what they already suspected, that apart, they were only half alive.
Thirty
A mile outside of town, Heath noticed four men riding hell bent for leather toward Santa Fe.
A more disreputable bunch he had never seen. They were brigands, up to no good. He’d bet his badge on it. Fearing that Jay’s cover had been blown and the gang was in pursuit of him, he took Stevie and Erica into town and dropped them at Pilar’s before heading over to the jail.
He would get the marshal and they would go after the men. It was time someone taught the young lawman how to go up against the opposition. And Heath was the man to do it.
Inside the jailhouse, he found Donn Pedro alone, his lower lip trembling, mumbling something about the three men who stole the marshal. A sob escaped the child’s lips, but he held back the tears.
“Damn!” Heath uttered. Dropping down onto one knee, he pushed his hat back with two fingers and looked Pedro in the eye. “What’s your name, son?”
“Donn Pedro.”
“Where do you live, Donn Pedro?”
Pedro settled his gaze on the floor. “Here.”
“Okay. You just stay here and don’t tell anybody about this—” Heath began quietly. “And don’t worry. The men who took Marshal Reno won’t hurt him. I promise. I’ll bring him back. Safe and sound. If you need anything while the marshal and I are gone, go to Miss Pilar’s boardinghouse and ask for Stevie Johns. Do you know her?”
“Sí.” His voice was very small.
“Stevie’s a friend of mine. She’ll help you. Okay?”
Pedro drew himself up, trying to hide his fear. “You will help the marshal.” It sounded quite like an order. “And I will do as you say.” As an afterthought, he added, “Who are you?”
“Can you keep a secret, Donn Pedro?”
Pedro eyed Heath with a hint of indignation. Of course he could keep a secret! He nodded tersely.
Heath reached into his pocket and drew out his U.S. marshal’s badge.
The child’s eyes widened and darkened with respect. He stretched forth a shaky finger and touched the metal that had been warmed by its proximity to Heath’s body. “I won’t tell nobody,” he promised reverently. “Just bring the marshal back.” His voice quivered. “Please.”
Something broke loose inside Heath. He gathered the child in his arms. Pride stiffened Donn Pedro’s back momentarily, then he caved in and accepted the comfort the big gringo freely offered.
Heath patted the child’s head awkwardly. This land was too harsh and unforgiving for the weak, and this boy was weak. He was an orphan, alone in the world except for Reno. If the marshal were killed, the boy could starve to death. Pedro had to know that; Heath couldn’t begin to imagine how that would make a child feel.
Well, he would do what he could for Donn Pedro. First, that meant going after the marshal. While the abductors didn’t plan to kill Reno now—according to the information Jay had overheard—they might hurt him. Heath would trail them and stay close in the event that things got out of hand.
When their guard was down—when they stopped for the night—he would steal into camp and rescue the marshal. He would bring Reno back if it was the last thing he ever did.
Telling Pedro as much, he rushed back to the boardinghouse. Stevie was sitting in the rocking chair on the portico. He knew that she was waiting for him, and the knowledge warmed his heart. “I have to throw some things together. Come up with me.”
She nodded, rising from the chair.
He halted with his hand on the front door. “Where’s Erica?”
“A lieutenant from the fort arrived moments after you left. Sent here by her doting papa. With an escort of twenty. They took her away.”
Heath grinned, taking Stevie’s hand in his own. “There is a God.”
Smiling, she followed him up the staircase.
When they entered his room, he found his saddlebags packed with sufficient food, clothing, and ammunition for a lengthy trip. He pulled her through the doorway and closed the door firmly behind them. He tossed his hat on the bed, leaned back against the door, settled her into the cradle of his thighs, and looked down into midnight-black eyes. “You packed for me.” It wasn’t a question, rather a statement of fact.
“You’re going after them.”
“I have to. They’ve kidnapped Ted Reno. And while the kid may not be worth a spit in the river, he’s still the marshal. I have to go,” he repeated. “Now. Before they get away.”
Cupping her head in one large palm, he took her lips beneath his own. He kissed her with all the love in his heart. Then his mouth brushed hers softly as he spoke. “I wish we had more time to say good-bye, sweetheart.”
The hot hardness pressing against her belly told Stevie what they would do if they had more time. More than anything, she wanted him to stay. But perhaps it was best that he leave quickly. His absence would give her time to shore up her defenses, time to convince herself that she could live in a world without him.
Frustrated longing shook her body at the thought of never being held by Heath again. Hungrily, shamelessly, she burrowed her arms beneath his leather vest and circled his waist. Silently, she cursed her own weakness.
His arms closed about her more tightly, one hand in the small of her back pressing her to him. The ensuing kiss was urgent, frantic, ravenous. It was brilliant light, vibrant heat, melding them together, mouth to mouth, heart to heart, soul to soul. Fused, he rocked her slowly against him, massaging the part of him that was trying to make him forget about outlaws, kidnappers, marshals, promises to orphans, anything, everything but Stevie. Loving her long and hard was uppermost in his mind as he fed on the passion of her kiss.
Pulling away, he tried to tell her how much he loved her, how much he would miss her. And between each vow of devotion, each declaration of need, he showered kisses on the tip of her nose, her eyelids, her cheeks and jaw, her bare, slender neck.
“Will you think about me while I’m gone?” Heath asked against her heated skin.
At a loss, she buried her face in his hair. She breathed in the scent of him, wanting his aroma, the very essence of him to be captured inside her. She held her breath. When her lungs would burst, she exhaled grudgingly.
He massaged the rise and fall of her chest. Again he asked her, “Will you think of me?”
“No.”
“No?” He pulled back and tilted her face up.
She kept her expression carefully blank. She should tell him now that there was no future for them. She knew she should. It would be easier on both of them. Quick and clean, cut him out of her life like a cancer.
But the way he was gazing at her—hopefully, lovingly, with more vulnerability in his eyes than she had ever expected to see—she couldn’t bring herself to voice the words. He was not a cancer that killed, but a force that gave her life. Despite her best efforts to the contrary, a slow smile lit her face. Then his in response.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I’ll miss you.” She cleared her throat and blinked against the water forming in her eyes. Small fists pounded the wide muscled wall of his chest. “But I don’t want to. Damn your black heart.”
Chuckling, he captured both h
er hands in one of his own. His smile was so sexy, it made her want to throw him on the floor and jump on top of him, so patently self-satisfied, she wanted to break the slop jar over his head. She did neither. Instead, she whispered, “Kiss me again, you wretched man, then go catch the bad guys.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She expected a quick kiss, little more than a vigorous peck. What she received was a full frontal assault on all her senses, over her entire aching body. He employed lips, hands, body, and voice in his seduction of her. And he met with unparalleled success; she melted and pooled at his feet.
If he had to leave her indefinitely, he would give her something to think about while he was gone. He mapped her gently with his touch, his husky voice praising each part of her body, raising her desire and heart rate accordingly.
His tongue and lips were everywhere at once. On, in, and around her mouth, over her face, in her ear—she giggled, then moaned at the heady sensation—down her neck, pausing on her pulse point. He nipped it, then soothed it with the tip of his tongue. When he laved it flatly, he felt the blood surging beneath her silky skin.
He slid his knee between her thighs, and the pounding beneath his tongue increased. He raised his leg a bit higher, nestling his bulging thigh at the V in her legs. The pulse at her throat grew erratic as she ground herself against his leg. His sharp breath dissolved into a deep groan.
It was then that Heath questioned the wisdom of his actions. Stevie was writhing against him passionately, making those sounds in the back of her throat that never failed to drive him crazy. If her uninhibited response was an indication, she would think of him while he was gone . . . just as he had intended when he began his skillful seduction.
But he had gotten caught in his own net. He was so aroused that he would be lucky if he could sit his horse. He didn’t even want to consider being unable to love her for days on end. What had started as a way to keep his woman enticed had ended as a means of self-torture. And Heath was no sadist. So after a kiss that was so heated it left them both momentarily stunned, he disentangled himself from her embrace and held her away from him.
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