Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  “What happened to your hand?” she asked to distract him.

  He changed instantly from a wary beast to a maddened animal. “You think that’s funny, you goddamned bitch?” he shrieked at her.

  Angela tried to sit up, but her hands were tied behind her back and had long since gone numb. Her feet, too, were dead. She couldn’t even feel the difference between the one with the shoe and the one without.

  “I-I’m sorry. I was just curious, that’s all.” She cringed at the fear evident in her voice. Trying to show him what a coward you are, Angie Sue?

  Miller cursed and kicked the remains of a chair from his path. “Don’t play cute with me, you little slut! You know goddamn good an’ well what happened to my hand.” He whipped a knife from his belt and cut the bonds at her feet, then sheathed the knife, leaving her hands still tied behind her.

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded. “How would I know…” Images exploded in her mind. His threat that day she helped Chee. Her father standing over her mother’s grave, falling dead on her mother’s grave. The pistol, held in a man’s right hand. Her shot that somehow hit true. “You?” she shrieked. She struggled to rise without the use of her hands. “You killed my father?”

  Miller merely grinned at her, a slow, evil grin that chilled her blood. “Get up.”

  “It was you!” she screamed. “You killed my father! You murdered him!”

  “And you crippled me, you bitch! You’re gonna pay for what you did to me that day!”

  “What I did to you! You stinking, crawling, lowlife worm! You didn’t get half of what you deserved!”

  “I sure didn’t, sister, but I aim to get what I deserve right now. Get over there on that bunk and lay down, now!”

  Angela was so outraged by what she’d just learned that she forgot to be afraid. She’d never been really angry in her life, but now she purposely allowed it to boil in her veins. She wanted revenge! She wanted him to pay! Who did he think he was, to go around ordering people, kidnapping people, killing people! “I will not!”

  “You’ll do what I say, or it’ll go just that much harder on you.”

  “You want to know what I think of your threats?” She worked her dry mouth for all it was worth, and spit right in his face. “That’s what I think of you and your threats.”

  Just as Miller swung at her, striking her full across the face and cutting her lip again, the weathered door exploded inward. The tiny room was filled with the roar of Matt Colton’s rage.

  In one quick glance, Matt took in Angela’s battered face, bleeding lip, and the awkward way she held her arms behind her. Rage like he’d never known before filled him, a deep, smoldering, murderous rage. He’d never seen this man before, but for the first time in his life, Matt hated. He’d never even really hated Tahnito. But this man who hurt Angela, this man he hated with all his being.

  Matt launched himself at the object of his hatred, casually knocking aside the knife swinging at his head. The knife clattered against the adobe wall and fell with a soft thud to the dirt floor, leaving Miller unarmed, since his gunbelt hung on a peg beside the only door.

  Miller’s gaze darted frantically around the room, searching for a weapon. With his good hand, he scooped up a broken chair leg and moved in for the attack. Matt caught the blow on his forearm without so much as a blink. He snatched the chair leg away and tossed it behind him without looking.

  Matt continued to advance. “I’m going to take you apart limb by limb, you bastard.” But he had to wait to make his move, because Miller was directly in front of Angela now, and Matt didn’t want to take the chance of either one of them, or both, landing on her.

  Miller reached sideways and grabbed the only good chair. He sidestepped quickly, enabling himself to swing the thing like a club. On his backswing, the chair rammed forcefully into Angela’s stomach.

  When the chair struck her, Angela felt several things at once: a terrible, wrenching pain deep inside, a sudden loss of breath, and her head striking the adobe wall behind her. Her world went dark again, and she slumped to the floor.

  On the rebound, the chair struck Matt. It was so old it shattered against Matt’s solid form like it was made of matchsticks.

  Miller growled. This was no greenhorn tenderfoot he was up against, even though Colton was a good six or seven years younger than himself. Colton was big and muscular, a full head taller. Miller’s chances didn’t look so good, but he’d never run from a fight yet, and he’d never lost one, either.

  Of course, he’d never been forced to fight fair before, and his useless right hand left him at a distinct disadvantage. Sweat beaded across his forehead. His eyes skimmed the table and he remembered the razor. The only problem was, it looked like he might have to go right through Colton to get it.

  Miller swung a hard left to Matt’s jaw, knocking him back a couple of steps. Just enough so Miller could reach the razor. He grabbed it, flipped it open, and waved it in front of Matt. Matt made a dive for the hand that held the razor. He’d already noticed Miller didn’t use his right hand, so he grabbed at the left wrist. Both men went down, rolling on the dirt floor, struggling for control of the thin blade.

  Miller’s right hand might have been almost useless, but there was nothing wrong with his arm. He swung it at Matt’s head, clipping him on the ear with the heal of his hand, once, twice. Matt was forced to loose one hand from Miller’s other wrist to keep from being bludgeoned to death by the right arm being used like a club.

  Matt’s grip was so tight Miller lost control of his left hand and the razor slipped from his fingers. Matt quickly rolled over on top of the razor, and, using his feet as well as his hands, threw Miller up and off of him. Miller came down on the table, scattering tin plates across the room, and rolled off the other side. Matt scrambled to his feet and kicked the razor beneath the bed.

  As Matt turned, Miller grabbed the gun from his holster hanging on a peg next to the door. Without hesitation, Matt drew and fired, hitting him in the shoulder. Miller staggered, then straightened. He aimed his pistol again. Matt fired again, this time shooting Miller’s gun hand.

  Miller bellowed in pain and outrage. “Goddamn you! Goddamn you! Why don’t you just kill me, instead of leaving me with two useless hands!”

  “Don’t tempt me.” Matt grabbed a length of rope from the floor and tied Miller’s hands behind his back, ignoring the blood pouring from the bastard’s shoulder and hand, then turned his attention to Angela. He tossed his gun down on the mattress, rolled her to her side and cut her hands free.

  She came to with a low moan, and Matt was there, dabbing gently at the cut on her lip with his handkerchief.

  “How do you feel, Angel? Are you all right?”

  “Oh, Matt!” She threw her aching arms around his neck and clutched at him desperately. “You came! You found me! I knew you would!” Her tears wet his neck. Tears of relief so sweet she couldn’t stop them.

  Matt cradled her, held her, kissed her tears away. His hands ran over her, frantic in their search of possible injuries. “Are you hurt?” She only sobbed again and pressed her face deeper into his shoulder. “Angel, talk to me, sweetheart. Are you hurt?”

  “N-No,” she managed, trying to control her emotions. “I…I’m okay.”

  Matt pulled away and gazed into her puffy, red eyes. “Are you sure?”

  She sniffed back her remaining tears and nodded. “I think so. My head hurts some, but I just want to go home. Take me home, Matt.”

  “I will, Angel, I promise.” He kissed her lips, softly, tenderly, afraid of hurting her. “Just as soon as I figure out what to do with our friend here.”

  Angela sat up carefully, with Matt’s help, and glared her hatred at Miller, who lay whining against the far wall. She wiped her face with her palm. “He killed my father,” she spat.

  “He what?”

  “He killed my father! He’s the one who came that day, just before Tahnito. I told you about it.”

  “Yeah, you d
id,” Matt said grimly. He picked up his revolver and placed it in Angela’s lap. “I’m going to send someone for the sheriff. If the bastard moves so much as an inch, shoot him.”

  Matt strode out of the one-room dwelling, spurs jingling with each step. Not far away, he spied three Mexican boys playing with a dog.

  “Hey! ¡Niños!” He called the boys over and promised a silver dollar to each if they would go get the sheriff. The boys took off at a run, excited both at getting to talk to the sheriff, and at getting a silver American dollar.

  Angela didn’t feel well, but for Matt’s benefit, she put on a brave front. She didn’t want a doctor; she didn’t want to lay down and rest. She just wanted to go home, the sooner the better.

  It wasn’t long before the sheriff came. Matt paid the three boys their dollar each, then explained the situation to the sheriff.

  “Well, I’ll just drag this varmint on over to the jail,” Sheriff Pugh said. “Face looks kinda familiar to me. I’ll check my files. Could be a circular out on him. Let ya know, Colton.”

  All the way home, Matt held Angela carefully, gratefully, in his arms. He finally got her to tell him what she was doing in the barn last night when Miller came.

  “Angela, why didn’t you tell me? I would never have let you go out there to meet him.”

  “Oh, Matt!” she cried. “I know it was stupid of me, but he said if I didn’t show up alone, he’d set fire to all the buildings and shoot everybody as they ran out. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “My sweet Angel, do you think I would have let him burn the ranch down on top of us? If you’d told me he was coming, I could have posted guards, we would have caught him, and you wouldn’t have had to go through all this.”

  “I—I…guess it wasn’t very smart of me, was it?”

  “Well, it’s over now. But Angel, if anything like this ever happens again, God forbid, if anyone ever threatens you in any way, you come to me.”

  “All right.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Just as they rounded that last low hill and the ranch buildings came into sight, a sharp pain caught Angela below her navel and shot clear through to her backbone. She gasped and doubled over.

  “Angela! What is it?”

  She clutched his arm with one hand and her stomach with the other. “I don’t know! Oh, God, Matt, it hurts! It hurts!”

  “Hang on, sweetheart,” he said urgently. “I’ll have you home in a minute. Just hang on, Angel.”

  He kept the horse at a walk, afraid to jostle Angela around, and it seemed to take forever to reach the house. Benito spotted them first, and Matt sent him on the run for Rosita.

  Matt swung down off the saddle, keeping one hand on Angela to steady her. He slid an arm beneath her knees and quailed at how pale her face was. When he lifted her from the saddle, she clung to him and cried.

  Matt held her in his arms and stared stupidly, unable—unwilling—to accept what his eyes told him.

  The saddle was covered with blood.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “What has happened?” Rosita cried. She followed breathlessly behind Matt as he carried his precious burden into the house and down the hall.

  He placed Angela on the bed. His arms, when he withdrew them from beneath her, were covered with blood.

  “So much blood!” Rosita cried. “Help me undress her, quickly!”

  Angela was crying and moaning, and Matt did his best to soothe her with words.

  “What’s happening? Why does it hurt so much?” she gasped.

  “Hang on, Angel, just hang on,” Matt said, unable to keep the tremor from his voice.

  “The baby is coming.” Rosita crossed herself.

  Matt’s throat tightened and his hands trembled when Rosita uttered a quick prayer for help from her beloved saints, both for herself, and for Angela.

  “Noooo!” Angela screamed. “It’s too soon! The baby can’t come yet! It can’t come till spring!”

  “I think you should leave us, Matt,” Rosita suggested.

  “No,” Angela begged. She clutched Matt’s hand to her breast. “Don’t leave me, Matt. God, please don’t leave me.”

  The pain and fear in her eyes tore at his heart. “I won’t, Angel. I’m right here. Hush, sweetheart. You’ll be all right. We’ll take care of you.”

  “Pobrecita,” Rosita whispered. “Poor little one.”

  “Can’t you do something?” Matt demanded.

  “Not for the baby.” Rosita shook her head sadly. “It’s too late for the baby. But I will do my best for your little wife, Señor Matt.”

  Matt’s mouth went dry with dread. Rosita hadn’t put a señor to his name in years. Not since he was a child.

  It was a nightmare, one that would haunt him for years. Angela was racked with pain for hours. When the underdeveloped child came, so tiny, so dead, Angela finally lost consciousness.

  Later that night, a fever set in. All over the Triple C candles burned in the darkness. Prayers for the young señora’s well-being were offered to God and all the saints.

  Matt sat beside the bed, totally unaware of anything except Angela. She didn’t moan, or toss and turn, or rave, as some did when consumed by a high fever. She just lay there, so still, so quiet, barely breathing. He’d never felt this helpless, this scared, in his life. Being mauled by a bear was infinitely easier to endure than watching Angela suffer.

  Rosita came several times to change the packing between Angela’s legs. After the first few times, Matt refused to look. So much blood! How could one small woman lose so much blood and still live?

  The fever finally broke the next afternoon, and Angela slept and breathed easier. Matt, too, finally slept, but he refused to leave her side. He slept sprawled in the chair he’d pulled up next to the bed.

  When Angela opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was Matt. He looked so tired! His clothes were a mess. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, and two or three days’ growth of whiskers covered his face.

  She tried to move and discovered she was as stiff and sore as she’d been after that first full day in the saddle. And weak! The simple effort of trying to move exhausted her. She moaned.

  Matt sat up with a jerk. “You’re awake.”

  “What’s happened?” she asked, her mind still groggy. “Why do you look so tired? And why am I so stiff and weak?”

  “Don’t you remember, Angel? You’ve been ill for two days.” He gripped her hand tightly in his. “You lost the baby, Angel.”

  At first she simply stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. It was a full minute before his meaning sank in. “Noooo!” she cried. “Our baby! Oh Matt, not our baby!” In her weakened condition, she couldn’t even begin to hold back the tears, and didn’t try. She ran a hand across her abdomen, felt the terrible emptiness where once there had been a slightly rounded firmness, and knew he spoke the truth.

  Matt held her and tried to wipe the tears away, but they came too fast. “I’m so sorry, Angel. So sorry. But we almost lost you too. I’m just glad you’re all right. Don’t cry, sweetheart. We’ll have other babies, I promise. You’ll see, everything will be all right now that you’re better.”

  Angela’s tears continued, accompanied by great, wracking sobs. She cried and cried, and finally cried herself into an exhausted sleep.

  She stayed in bed for two weeks recovering, regaining her strength. Her spirits improved daily, and Matt was relieved.

  He was in his study going over the books one morning after breakfast when Davita came rushing in.

  “Matt! Come quick!”

  “What is it?” He rose immediately and crossed the floor in three long strides. “Is it Angela? Is something wrong?”

  Davita sobbed once, then covered her mouth. “Just come, Matt!” she cried. “Hurry!”

  Matt’s heart jumped into his throat. Something had happened to Angela! He ran down the hall and was almost too afraid to open the door, but he forced himself
.

  He stood in the open doorway and sagged with relief. “You’re up,” he said with a big smile.

  Angela turned from rummaging through a drawer and returned his smile distractedly. “Yes, finally,” she said. She turned her back to him and opened one drawer after another in the bureau, spilling the contents of each to the floor. “Where is it?” she hissed to herself.

  “Looking for something?” Matt asked. A stupid question, he thought. The room looked like a cyclone had struck. The doors to the wardrobe gaped open; clothes were strewn everywhere. The mattress lay half on the floor. The trunk at the foot of the bed sat open and empty, its contents having gone the way of the rest of the clothes in the room.

  “Oh, Matt,” Angela cried. “I’ve looked everywhere, and I just can’t find it!”

  “Find what? What in the devil are you looking for?”

  “What a silly question. I’m looking for the baby, of course.”

  Matt jerked as if he’d been shot.

  Angela looked up at him and laughed lightly. “Oh Matt, don’t look like that. I know you said I lost the baby, but you can’t have been serious. A mother simply does not misplace her child. It must be here somewhere.” She looked around the room with a puzzled expression. “I just can’t seem to find it. But I’ve only just started to look. I’ll find it, don’t you worry.”

  Matt’s mind refused to accept what he was hearing. His throat went dry and his stomach heaved.

  “I know,” Angela exclaimed. “How silly of me. The baby must be in the nursery.”

  She brushed past Matt and headed down the hall. Matt turned and stared at Davita, dumbfounded. “Get Rosita,” he said softly.

  Matt found Angela in the nursery, looking under each stack of blankets. “Angela.” His voice shook with fear and dread. “You should rest. Come back to bed and lie down for a while.”

  “But Matt, I’ve got to find the baby.” she insisted.

  When he reached for her hand, his own trembled. “Please come with me and rest.”