Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  But…there was always a but to mar one’s happiness, wasn’t there? And the but that worried her on a daily basis was the fact that, from the very beginning, the word love was never spoken by either of them.

  Did he only desire her, and want their child? Or was he still too sensitive over her rejection of him to admit he loved her? And what about her? There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she loved him, would always love him, but she hadn’t said it either. She was too afraid her love wasn’t returned.

  His hand moved down and rested on her stomach. Angela tensed, then relaxed as his breathing continued its regular rhythm.

  She was surprised she could even hear him over the pounding of her own heart. It was nearly midnight.

  Angela slipped carefully from beneath Matt’s heavy arm and left the room, being as quiet as possible. Earlier in the evening she’d hidden some clothes in the room Serena and Jessica normally shared. She let herself into the room and dressed hurriedly in the darkness, then crept silently from the house.

  The moon was so bright the trees, bushes and buildings all cast dark shadows across the ground. She kept to those shadows as much as possible and made her way to the barn, hoping Sheba would recognize her scent and not bark.

  The big double barn doors were partially open. Angela stopped just outside. She turned around to make sure no one was about. A hand clamped roughly over her mouth. She screamed behind the hand. She nearly fainted when a pistol cocked loudly in her ear. It seemed to echo in her head as she was dragged into the dark interior of the barn.

  “Don’t make a sound, or I’ll kill you here and now. Understand?”

  The hand across her mouth was so tight she could barely nod her head.

  “I’m going to take my hand away now, but you can feel the gun.”

  She could! My God! It was Miller, and he had the cold barrel of his pistol pressed against her neck. Angela began to tremble like she’d never trembled before.

  She was still hearing the echo of the pistol being cocked, so she didn’t hear the match strike, but she saw it flare.

  Miller lit a lantern and hung it from a hook on the wall after he closed the barn doors. Angela opened her mouth to speak, then closed it with a gasp when the pistol came up between her eyes.

  “Don’t say a word,” Miller growled. “And don’t think that Swede who sleeps in the tack room is gonna help ya any. He’s sleepin’ real hard.” Miller chuckled at his own wit. “If he manages to wake up in the morning, he’s gonna have one hell of a headache.”

  He nudged Angela toward the shelf next to the lantern. “Pick up that pencil and paper. You’re gonna leave your husband a note, then you and me are gonna take a little ride in the moonlight. Won’t that be romantic?” he added with a half sneer, half leer.

  “Wh-what do you w-want me to write?”

  “Tell him you’re leavin’ and not coming back. Make him think you left on your own. If he comes after you, I’ll kill him.”

  “I—”

  “Shut up and write.”

  Dear God! What was she to do? He obviously meant to take her with him. He said he’d kill Matt! Matt may or may not love her, but she carried his child. Of course he would follow. Nothing she could say in a note would stop him.

  As panicked as she felt, her brain was still functioning, and she knew what she had to do. She had to warn Matt somehow that if he followed her, he would be walking into a trap. He would still come, she knew, even if she said she hated him. She had to say something that sounded innocent to Miller, but which Matt would take as a warning.

  Then, like a gift from God, it came to her, and she knew what to say. She scribbled a few hurried lines and even managed to sign her name before Miller grabbed the note away from her. He held it up in the light to read.

  “‘Matt, it’s been fun, but now I’m leaving you, just the same way I married you in the first place—of my own free will. Angela.’“Miller snickered. “You done real good.”

  He moved the lantern to the shelf and stuck the note on the hook on the wall. He swung the big door open a crack and dragged her through, then clamped his hand back over her mouth. He practically carried her around the far side of the barn and threw her into the saddle of his waiting horse, then mounted behind her.

  Miller removed his kerchief and gagged her with it. He also took a short length of rope and tied her hands to the saddle horn. He started his horse out at a slow walk and followed the trees for several hundred yards. When the cover veered away from the road he left the sheltering shadows and kept to the middle of the road, still at a walk, until they rounded the hill. Once they were out of sight he spurred his horse into a mile-eating gallop toward Tucson.

  The ride was a nightmare. The wind in her face was cold, but that was nothing compared to the cold she felt when Miller’s hands started roaming over her thighs, her stomach, her breasts. She squirmed and leaned forward, trying to scream behind her gag. Miller laughed at her useless efforts and pinched her breast so hard it brought tears to her eyes.

  Finally he wrapped the reins around his right hand and settled his left hand between her legs, digging his fingers between her and the saddle.

  If it had been Matt’s hand there, she was sure she would have swooned with pleasure, but now she felt nothing but revulsion. Her stomach heaved in protest, and she fought down the nausea. If the contents of her stomach came up while she was gagged, she’d choke to death.

  And if that weren’t enough, he pressed his crotch against her buttocks and wiggled, making certain she felt the hardness of his arousal with each pounding beat of the horse’s hooves. She tried to scoot forward, but it was impossible.

  In spite of the fear of not knowing what Miller intended to do to her, a terrible weariness swept over her. It was the middle of the night, and she’d ridden most of the day on a hard, uncomfortable wagon seat, then she and Matt had made passionate love—more than once. She began to doze in the saddle, but each time she nodded off, her back came in contact with Miller’s chest, forcing her to lean forward again. She couldn’t stand any more contact with him than she already had.

  The night seemed to go on forever. When they finally reached the outskirts of Tucson, the sky was still black, giving no hint that dawn would ever come. Thick, heavy clouds now covered the moon. Miller guided the horse off the main road at the edge of town and cut across an empty lot toward the dim outline of a small shack.

  The horse shied suddenly as something small, a rabbit maybe, darted across the path. Angela was jostled in the saddle. She tried to find some place to brace her feet, but there was no such place. All she got for her efforts was a growl from Miller to be still, and a bare foot when one of her shoes slipped off.

  When Miller pulled up in front of the shack, he swung down from the saddle, tied the reins to a hitching post, and left Angela there while he went inside. After a few minutes, the dim glow of a lantern shone through the open door. Then he came back and untied her from the saddle horn. He threw the short rope he’d used on her wrists over his shoulder and pulled her roughly to the ground. Her legs were so weak she stumbled and fell against him.

  Miller laughed. “Hot for me, aren’t ya?”

  Angela cringed away. He grabbed her hands and dragged her into the shack. She wrinkled her nose at the stench of the place. In the center of the one-room adobe hovel stood a table covered with dried bits of food. Next to it was one whole chair, and strewn about the floor were pieces of others. There was a fireplace along one wall, piled high with cold ashes. The only other thing in the room was a single bunk opposite the fireplace.

  He pushed her toward the bunk. Fear overwhelmed her. The leer on his face sent shivers down her spine. She fought him then, trying to get away, but she was no match for his strength. He managed to get the rope around her wrists again. When she kept struggling, he landed a backhanded blow across her face. She felt her lip split, then a second later tasted her own blood in her mouth. She screamed behind her gag. He hit her again. Everything went bla
ck.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The sky was just turning gray when Matt woke up. The bed had an empty feel to it. He reached out to draw Angela closer, but met only her pillow. Startled, he raised up quickly and peered across the gloomy darkness. Was she sick again? He fumbled beside the bed for a match and lit the lamp.

  No Angela.

  As tired as she’d been last night, he was surprised she was up this early. She never woke up before him.

  The air was chilly against his bare skin when he threw back the covers and got up. She was probably in the salon, warming herself before a roaring fire. He dressed in a hurry, eager to join her.

  But she wasn’t in the salon. It was dark and empty, the hearth cold. Nor was she in the dining room. When he reached the kitchen Rosita was there starting breakfast, but she hadn’t seen Angela.

  He started back through the house again, but was interrupted by a frantic pounding on the front door.

  “Matt!” Carlos yelled from outside. “Matt! Open up!”

  Matt swung the heavy front door open. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Hans! Come quick!”

  The urgency of Carlos’s voice left no doubt in Matt’s mind that something was wrong. He’d have to find Angela later.

  He followed Carlos at a run through the side door of the barn, past the tack room, past the stalls, toward the large, double-doored front entrance.

  Benito was bending over Hans, their voices low, indistinguishable. They both looked up when Matt and Carlos approached.

  “What happened?” Matt demanded. A rope and a dirty rag lay next to Hans. The big, gentle Swede was holding his head as if it pained him.

  “Some stinking, no good coward clobbered him from behind. Tied him up and gagged him!” Benito was outraged.

  So was Matt. Nothing like this had ever happened on the Triple C before. “Did you get a look at him, Hans?” Matt asked.

  “No, boss. I was in the tack room. Thought I heard the big door squeak. It was late, nearly midnight I guess. I came out here and the door was open. Next thing I know, Ben here was telling me to wake up.”

  “Damn!” Matt couldn’t begin to imagine who could have done such a thing.

  “Matt, I think you’d better come here,” Carlos said from behind him.

  Matt hurried to his side and saw the note. He tore it from the wall. As he read it the blood drained from his face. She’d left him! No. It’s impossible. He read the note a second time, then a third.

  …of my own free will.

  When the meaning of her words finally penetrated the fog in his brain, he inhaled sharply. She’d been taken!

  “Get Hans to the house and have Rosita look at his head. Hans, you take it easy till your head clears. Are there any horses missing?”

  “Not from in here,” Carlos said. “You want me to check the corral?”

  “Yes. I’m going to have a look around. And just so you don’t get the wrong idea, this note doesn’t mean what you think it means. Go!”

  Matt swung open the big doors and studied the ground. There were too many tracks and prints. Dozens of people and horses came and went through this door every day. He let his eyes roam over the terrain. If he were coming here in secret, where would he hide his horse?

  Who? his mind screamed. Who? Why? And how had the man grabbed Angela when she should have been sleeping beside him? Matt was certain she wasn’t taken by force from the house. He would have heard something. She must have come outside. But why?

  One thing was sure—he wouldn’t find out anything by standing around wondering. He circled the barn, studying the ground as he went. When he reached the west side, he found what he was looking for. A horse had been here, recently, where no horse should have been. The droppings weren’t even a day old. Up next to the building were three clear boot prints. In between two of them was a smaller print. The print of a woman’s slipper.

  Matt forced himself to remain calm, and it wasn’t easy. All he wanted to do was ride out after them, but he made himself wait. He studied the ground again.

  There. That’s what he was looking for. Something to set the man or the animal apart. Now he had it. One horseshoe was worn completely down on the front edge, leaving a distinctive, telling imprint.

  The bastard doesn’t take very good care of his horse.

  Matt ran back to the house, calling for his pinto to be saddled. He strapped on his six–shooter and tied the holster down to his thigh. He stuck one knife behind him, in his belt, and another in his boot. He slapped on his spurs, grabbed his rifle and an extra box of cartridges, and went for his horse. Not knowing how long he’d be gone or how far he’d have to travel, he tied his bedroll behind his saddle, praying all the while he wouldn’t need it. He added hastily stuffed saddlebags, grain for the horse, and a full canteen.

  “Tell Luis he’s in charge till I get back. I don’t know how long that’ll be.”

  Matt picked up the trail where it led from the barn to the trees and followed it to where it joined the road. The pinto sensed his impatience and fretted at the slow pace, but Matt couldn’t afford to race headlong toward Tucson. He had to keep an eye out in case the one he followed had left the road somewhere between here and town. The bastard had a six or seven hour lead on him, and Matt knew he couldn’t afford the time to backtrack.

  He shied away from the thought that Angela had been gone that many hours. So much could happen in that amount of time. Then he forced himself to admit she could even be dead by now. If she was, he’d find the one responsible if it took him the rest of his life. The man would die a very slow and painful death. Matt hadn’t been listening at the Apache campfires for over ten years and not learned something about torture.

  In fact, even if Angela was all right, and he must believe she was, the bastard deserved to die. Unless Angela went willingly, but he didn’t believe that for a minute. As willingly as she’d married him in the first place, her note had said. She chose him willingly, all right. Her only alternative was death. So the man, whoever he was, had threatened her.

  But who? Why? his mind screamed. Angela didn’t know anyone around here. Maybe some drifter in town saw her yesterday and took a liking to her. But why did she go to the barn?

  Something Travis had said a few weeks ago struck his mind now. The man who had been watching the women while they were shopping. Angela had known him. Miller—the one who shot Chee.

  Chee had told Matt how Angela had stood in front of the white man so Chee could get away. Could this be some sort of attempt at revenge?

  Around and around the questions went. Matt finally forced them to the back of his mind, afraid he would miss some sign on the trail. None of it really mattered anyway. All that mattered was getting Angela back, safe and sound.

  They’d had such a short time together, he and Angela. Things had been so sweet between them since she came home from Tucson that day just before Christmas. She was his wife, and she carried his child. The only thing lacking in the past few weeks was that little phrase, “I love you.” Neither of them had said it.

  But they were there, those words, even though they weren’t spoken. They were there in every touch, every glance, every kiss. Why had he not told her in words? Why had she not told him? Pride, he supposed, or fear of rejection. How stupid; how sad.

  When he got her back, he swore the first thing he was going to do was tell her, in words, how much he loved her. He just hoped and prayed he wasn’t too late.

  It was daylight now, but it was hard to tell, the sky was so overcast with heavy gray clouds. He figured it was around nine when he neared the outskirts of Tucson. His eyes continued to dart from one side of the rode to the other. Something off to his right caught his attention.

  He swung his mount off the road to investigate. It was blue, and it didn’t belong on this brown, hard–packed earth. He got down and picked up a woman’s blue slipper. His heart thundered in his chest. Angela had worn a pair just like this only yesterday.

  Mat
t began to search for tracks, and found them. They led in a straight line from the road to a tiny, rundown adobe hut standing all alone just ahead. A bay gelding stood tied to the hitching rail out front, saddled, as if ready to leave any minute.

  Or left saddled all night by a man who didn’t take care of his horse.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Angela came to with a groan. When she tried to move, every muscle in her body protested. She opened her eyes, but it was several long seconds before she remembered where she was and how she got there. She was on the floor; her hands and feet were tied. Miller stood over her with a sneer on his face.

  “Not quite so high an’ mighty now, are ya?”

  He turned his back on her and proceeded to shave in front of a tiny broken mirror hanging on the wall near the bed. There was something odd about the way he shaved, but Angela’s dazed mind couldn’t figure it out. She concentrated on watching him to give her mind something to focus on besides what he might have planned for her.

  The glove. That was what was odd about his shaving. He wore a glove; just one—on his right hand.

  Who ever heard of a man wearing a glove when he shaved?

  A sharp tingling began at the base of her skull and spread outward. A new feeling of danger assailed her.

  This was different from the terror she’d been experiencing since he’d first grabbed her last night. Different. Stronger. A feeling of dread settled in her stomach. But why?

  Her gaze remained locked on that gloved hand while her mind tried to discern why the glove should upset her so.

  It was then she realized the glove wasn’t the only peculiar thing. He wasn’t using his fingers on that hand. They never bent or curled or grasped.

  Miller finished shaving and tossed the razor onto the table behind him. It landed on a dried bread crust, but he never even looked. His eyes were all for her. The look in them made her skin crawl.