Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  It took her a few moments to regain her composure. “Wow,” she said, a little break in her voice. Her sense of humor was intact despite the fact that her whole body was screaming for release. “You sure you gotta go? So soon?”

  His laugh turned into a groan when she ran a finger over his moist, puffy lips. He sucked it into his mouth as if he were an infant suckling on her breast. He groaned again at the mental picture he had drawn. “I’m sure I’ve gotta go . . . while I still can.”

  She smiled sweetly.

  “But I can barely stand the thought of leaving you behind. If it wasn’t dangerous, sugar, I would take you with me.”

  She sobered instantly. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

  He cursed himself for worrying her even as the concern in her ebony eyes thrilled him. His callused palms gently cradled her face. “Stephanie Johns, nothing in this world could keep me away from you and Winter and that new baby girl. I’ll be back.” He tilted his head, suddenly intense. “I swear it on our children’s lives.” He grinned. “Our present and future children’s lives.”

  The thick fringe of lashes that shaded her eyes flew up. She blushed instantly, helplessly. Her heart pounded in her chest. The need to bear his child was a living, breathing desire inside her. Even now she could be carrying his baby beneath her heart. She was speechless. “Dear God, please make it so,” she prayed silently.

  Unaware of the desperate prayer, he said as prayerfully as she, “I love you, sugar.” Then he kissed her one last time. Long, deep, and heartbreakingly sweet.

  She couldn’t say the words back to him. It would be too hard to tell him good-bye later if she did.

  Pretending not to notice, he told her about Pedro, retrieved his hat, hefted his saddlebag over his shoulder, and together they left the room.

  “Please, be careful,” she whispered against his lips, squeezing the hand that held her own.

  “I promise.” He kissed her gently, mounted his horse, and headed out of town.

  The sight that would sustain him in the hard times ahead was Stevie, standing on the portico, waving to him, one arm wrapped protectively around her waist.

  Thirty-one

  He left town at a full gallop, heading southwest for the Santa Fe Trail.

  Soon the lush green llano gave way to bunchgrass, mesquite bushes, mounds of dust, and craggy canyons. He shifted his Stetson low over his forehead to block out the bright rays of the sun.

  Squinting his eyes, he surveyed the ground beneath his horse’s hooves, looking for sign. The men who had taken Marshal Reno weren’t even bothering to hide their trail. Arrogant bastards, it was considerate of them to make his job so easy, he thought wryly.

  A hot wind blew across the basin, kicking up weeds and dust. He pulled his bandanna over his nose and mouth against the grit and grime. When the silken material brushed his lips, his mind and heart went back to Stevie. Lord, how he hated to leave her!

  Suddenly his attention was captured by four riders about two miles away. Their swiftly moving forms were silhouetted against the skyline as they disappeared into a thick copse of trees. They were the men he pursued.

  He left the trail and pushed Warrior to the limit. Taking a shortcut, he managed to get ahead of them. He positioned himself several hundred yards off the beaten path. Dropping behind a clump of mesquite, he tethered his mount, then crouched out of sight, waiting.

  When they came alongside him, he saw a Mexican riding a roan in the lead. The cartridges in his bandoleer glistened in the sun as he shifted in the saddle. His sombrero was pulled low, giving him a sinister look. He resembled many of the lowlife crooks that Heath had gone up against in the last two years. They were all basically cowards, most insane. Therefore, they could be unpredictable. Heath would have to watch them all closely.

  The second rider held the reins of his bay mare in a gloved hand while a carelessly rolled cigarette dangled from his mouth. Unlike the others, he wore rawhide chaparreras over his denim trousers. He looked like a typical cowboy riding the range in search of strays.

  The third rider, a tall young man, was the prisoner, Marshal Reno, no doubt. He was mounted atop a buckskin gelding, his feet tied to the stirrups, his hands secured behind his back. A full mop of red hair topped a face made boyish by a swarm of freckles roaming over his nose. His dirty cheeks were hollow, his back straight. He was obviously trying to hide his fear. So this was Donn Pedro’s hero. Heath smiled sadly.

  The fourth man, wearing a filthy wampus, rode a muscled black stallion. His face was harsh, jagged, set by a life of murder and mayhem. At a glance Heath knew he was the one to watch most closely.

  After the riders passed, they turned off the trail, heading west, and descended into a canyon. Heath mounted and rode over to the rim of the canyon. He watched them snake their way down a winding path into the arroyo. Reaching the floor of the canyon, they followed a stream, single file, until they disappeared around a bend.

  Keeping a distance between the men and himself, Heath pursued them through a maze of ravines that led off the first canyon. The mountaintops rose high above. The path slowly descended into a fault.

  Although it was midday, the walls of the ravine closed in around Heath, casting shadows all about. The surrounding hills blocked off the wind, but the lack of sunlight made the air cool.

  A strong sense of foreboding raised the hair on the back of his neck. The feeling was too strong to go unheeded. He picked up his pace.

  The riders twisted and turned, following winding canals. Finally, they approached a precipitous talus slope. Heath halted Warrior with a slight tug on the reins. When the three brigands stopped and dismounted, he backed his horse around a bend, slid from the saddle, and peered around a boulder.

  The Mexican untied Reno’s feet and shoved him to the ground. The Marshal cried out in agony when he hit the rocky surface of the ravine. Heath released the loop around his gun.

  The men ringed Ted like a pack of wolves circling a wounded fawn. Heath’s mouth grew dry at the murderous looks on their faces. Acting on instinct, he ran down the path, gun drawn.

  Reno begged his abductors for mercy, but to no avail. The third brigand kicked Ted in the teeth, yanked out his six-shooter, and emptied it into the young man’s chest. His body jerked convulsively with the impact of each bullet.

  “God no. Dear God, no,” Heath panted, throwing himself behind a boulder. He pressed his cheek against the cool rock.

  Why did they kill him? Jay said Judge Jack wanted him alive. He groaned, railing against fate, against his own sense of failure. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. It wasn’t. How could things have gone so horribly awry?

  Spurred by the need to avenge Reno, Donn Pedro, and every other poor defenseless soul the judge and his band of bastards had hurt, Heath rode back through the canyon. He came to a ravine that led off from the main channel. He followed the ravine, slipped off the trail, then waited for the killers to pass him by.

  He had underestimated them the first time, but he would not be caught unawares again. If it took him forever, he would see that they paid for what they had done to Reno, more to the point for what they had done to Donn Pedro. But he had to see to the marshal’s body. He couldn’t just leave it lying there.

  Shortly, he heard horses’ pounding on the rocky terrain in the main canyon. Before long the brigands passed his hiding place. The rhythmic clacking of hooves, the creak of saddle leather, faded in the distance.

  As Heath returned to the scene of the murder, Reno’s buckskin gelding met him on the path. Taking the gelding’s reins in his fist, he led it back to the site of the carnage.

  Heath slid from his mount and approached a shallow mound of rocks. One pale, blood-smeared hand was visible beneath the mound. It almost seemed to be pointing an accusing finger at him. With a voice he scarcely recognized as his own, he told the buckskin that he had one last duty to perform for his master.

  The bastards hadn’t even buried Reno properly, though they had o
bviously been instructed to hide the body. Heath hefted the rocks and threw them aside, not even feeling the sharp edges cut into his skin, the heavy strain tearing at his muscles. He released Reno’s bonds, placed his body over the gelding, and tied his hands and feet together underneath the horse’s belly.

  Numb now, Heath began the long journey out of the ravine. An hour before sundown he rode up to Delgado’s. It consisted of several adobe buildings, all connected by portals. Stopping before the general store, he tied the horses to the hitching rail and sauntered inside, out of the late afternoon sun.

  When he entered the store, the smell of leather, denim, and tobacco filled his nostrils. It was a familiar smell, a smell he always connected with the West.

  A heavyset Mexican with an open, friendly face greeted him. He introduced himself as the proprietor, Ricardo Delgado. With a heavy Spanish accent he offered Heath a room.

  Heath accepted, not opting to return to Adobe Wells that night. The trail would get cold if he took Reno back to town before pursuing his killers. Perhaps luck would be with him and he would find them quickly. Otherwise, he would have one helluva time picking up their trail.

  His thoughts reversed. Considering how little time he had spent on his assignment in Adobe Wells, he didn’t need to be distracted by a killing that might have nothing to do with Judge Jack and his bogus diamond mine, no matter what he had promised Donn Pedro.

  A sense of guilt and the desire for justice reversed his thoughts again. He had to find the men who killed Ted Reno. They had to pay for their crimes. Determined, he wheeled around and left the store as quickly as he had entered.

  Delgado followed him out onto the porch. He gasped when he saw Reno’s bloody corpse. “Madre Dios. It’s Marshal Reno. Who did this to him?”

  “I don’t know. But I intend to find out. Do you have somewhere I can leave him tonight?”

  “Sí, Señor. In the shed out back.” Delgado regarded the grisly body riddled with blue whistlers and covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. With his other hand he made the sign of the cross.

  Heath placed Ted’s body in the shed Delgado indicated, then followed the proprietor to the room that would be his for the night. Automatically, he washed the blood and dirt from his hands, face, and arms. He pulled a comb from his back pocket and ran it through his long black curls.

  A glance in the cracked mirror told him he needed a haircut and a shave. His own mother wouldn’t know him. His gaze slid down the front of his body; his clothes were filthy, but he was too weary to change.

  He went down to the saloon, ordered a steak with all the trimmings, and devoured it like a pack of wolves feasting on a fallen doe, somewhat surprised at his appetite, considering the day he’d had.

  His hunger sated, he tossed a coin on the table and made his way back to the general store. It was illuminated by several lanterns, as empty as it was before. Muttering appropriate but noninformative responses to Delgado’s incessant questions, he purchased a new Winchester. Almost asleep on his feet, he bought a shirt to replace the bloodstained one he still wore.

  The smell of liquor wafting through the door of the saloon was tempting, but the thought of a clean bed held even more appeal. If only Stevie were there to share it with him. He was truly exhausted, but he knew if she were within arm’s length, he would summon sufficient strength for something more than sleep.

  But she wasn’t here. The ensuing depression her absence caused sapped the faint flicker of strength he had left. Sighing heavily, he made his way to his room, fell into bed, boots, filthy clothes, and all. He lapsed into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  His dreams were anything but restful. Visions of Stevie running from Judge Jack, crying out for Heath to save her, tormented him. He awoke during the night, sweaty and shaken. “Stevie,” he whispered thickly. He had to see her, to make sure she was all right. Someone else could go after Reno’s killers; he was on another assignment, after all.

  But he was honest enough to admit that Judge Jack and his diamond scheme weren’t his main concern. His thoughts were of Stevie, his precious, beautiful, delicate, gutsy Stevie. She needed him. And more than he ever thought possible, he needed her. With thoughts of holding the woman he loved in his arms, he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  The next morning Heath awakened as the sun rose over the white peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. He washed up quickly, eager to be on his way.

  Shouldering his saddlebag, his first stop was the shed. He loaded Reno’s blanket-draped corpse on his horse, then led the buckskin around to the stable, where Warrior stood cropping hay.

  As he saddled his mount, the animal whinnied, whether in response to Heath’s stroking reassurance or the marshal’s mare’s proximity, Heath didn’t know. Maybe the old boy was smitten with Reno’s horse.

  When he approached the saloon, he found three horses tied to the hitching post; a roan, a bay, and a black. He recognized the horses as those the killers had been riding. He’d hit pay dirt!

  Heath tied Warrior and the buckskin to the rail, checked his Navy Colt, and slowly entered the saloon. He paused long enough for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim interior. One by one three men came into focus. But they weren’t the men Heath sought.

  The Mexican barkeep and two cowpunchers in range clothes glanced at Heath absently. If their appearance was an indication, the cowboys had ridden all night and were sipping whiskey before turning in at the hotel.

  They looked as tired as Heath had last evening. He nodded sympathetically. They returned his wordless greeting then turned back to their drinks.

  “Buenos dias,” the barkeep greeted him.

  Heath said good morning by ordering a cup of coffee. Moving to a table in the rear of the room, he sat with his back to the wall.

  As the barkeep placed a cup of the steaming brew on Heath’s table, the double doors of the establishment squeaked on their hinges, drawing both men’s attention.

  “Madre Dios.” The words rushed from the barkeep’s chest as Reno’s abductors stepped into view, guns drawn, trained on the room at large.

  Heath remained seated and silent; every nerve ending in his body tingled with anticipation. The cowboys halted their glasses in midair.

  The Mexican desperado—obviously the leader—sauntered in first, wearing jingle-bob spurs. Their large silver rowels glistened when a ray of sunlight struck them through an open window. A bandoleer of cartridges crossed his broad chest, lending him an ominous air. A brilliantly colored sombrero was suspended behind his neck by a piece of stiff rawhide. The brace of Walker Colts, usually tied low on his stringy thighs, were aimed at the cowboys and barkeep in turn.

  His partners trailed him, also wielding their weapons indiscriminately. The big man who actually pulled the trigger on Marshal Reno stepped into the room immediately behind the Mexican. With the sun at his back, his face was cast in shadows. His ruddy complexion, unkempt hair, waist-length beard, and massive shoulders and arms gave him the appearance of an orangutan. The wampus he wore made him look larger than life.

  All Heath could think was that this was the bastard who had actually pulled the trigger, over and over, snuffing out the life of a man who was little more than a boy, a man who was about as threatening as a puff ball tossed in the wind.

  The cowboy entered next and stepped up beside the Mexican. He had a thin, mousy face with cruel eyes. His chaparreras made the bottom half of his body look much too large for the top. He was small, wiry, and unlike his friends, harmless-looking. But Heath knew that looks could be deceiving.

  The brigands backed up to the bar. They ordered whiskey and again stared at each man in the room in turn. Finally, they turned their attention toward Heath.

  “What are your names?” Heath asked almost conversationally, catching them off guard by speaking first.

  The leader raised a questioning brow. He shrugged as if he didn’t see any harm in revealing their names since he didn’t plan to allow anyone in the sa
loon to leave alive. “I’m Chi Chi. This is Jones”—he pointed to the ape—“and that’s Montana.” He indicated the cowboy. “Who wants to know?”

  As Chi Chi spoke, Jones lumbered over to the window, away from the Mexican. Montana stationed himself halfway between the two.

  Heath acknowledged silently that the gang had played this scene before. Three to one, that was probably their usual odds. They were too gutless to face a man one on one.

  The barkeep and the cowpunchers sympathized with Heath, but none was interested in dying that day. Men in the untamed West learned early on that minding their own business was vital to staying alive. Smiling at Heath apologetically, the cautious threesome made for the door.

  Heath understood. Too bad he had never learned the lesson of minding his own business, he thought drolly. He inclined his head in tribute to their pragmatic spirit.

  He turned his full attention on the brigands then and watched with shock as they wheeled away from him and coldly shot the three men in the back. He was horrified, enraged. Still, he resisted the urge to do the same to them. Heath Turner was not a back shooter.

  Chi Chi turned a hideous smile on Heath. “Now we will have to kill you.” He feigned reluctance. “Such a pity to kill a man of honor,” he sneered, making reference to the fact that Heath didn’t shoot them in the back when he had the chance.

  “It doesn’t take a great deal of honor to refrain from shooting a man in the back. No matter how lowlife the man is. It’s the code of the West. Or hadn’t you heard? Only a coward takes advantage of a man with his back turned. But then, I had you three figured for cowards all along.”

  Anger sculpted the faces of all three men. “Your first mistake, mi amigo”—the Mexican bit off harshly—“was that you didn’t leave the marshal where you found him.”

  Heath stared coldly at him, unblinking. “Killing him was your first mistake.” He paused for emphasis. “And your last.”