by Jillian Hart
Frustrated, he bit back a curse, sat up and flicked off the half-dollar sized spider inching along his pant leg. The creature went flying, and he tucked his binoculars back into their leather pack.
“Too bad we can’t get the layout of their camp.” He inched down the backside of the slope, mindful of that probable lookout up on the cliff. He took care to make sure he was hidden by the rise and by the scrabbled pines before he stood. “Considering last time, we can’t risk it. We’ll have to go in blind.”
“My favorite way.” Deeks spit a stream of tobacco juice and grinned. His whiskery face and wild hair made him look like a mad man. “I’m up for it. I’d like to get these bastards before they hurt anyone else.”
“You’re thinking of that woman we found.” Mason bowed his head, felt his stomach twist, remembering. He rested his rifle against his arm and hiked down the slope, where the rest of his men waited with the horses. They’d come across the body a few days ago. She’d probably been pretty once—before the Folsom brothers and their gang had gotten a hold of her.
She’d been tortured for a long time, hurt for a long time and raped, God only knew how often. When they were done with her, the brutal men had left her body broken, she’d probably been beaten and kicked to death, maybe used as target practice. They’d left her for coyote food. Seeing that about broke what was left of his heart. He’d lost his faith in humanity long ago, and doing what he did for a living didn’t help, always seeing its darker side.
“Yeah, we need to get ‘em.” Grim, Deeks pulled his packet of chew out of his pocket. “I want ‘em real bad.”
“Me, too.” Grim, determined, his resolve like hard, unfailing steel, Mason planted his feet, considered the lay of the land, the trees behind them that would give them cover, and the fact that the sun was low in the sky.
Sunset would be here soon enough, and they wouldn’t waste time. He couldn’t risk the gang escaping in the night again. The trail of sorrow, murdered farmers, dead women—they were the reason he hunkered down on a nearby rock and began drawing a map in the dirt. The camp, the likely lookout, how they would approach, how they would strike. His hired men circled in, offering comments, nodding in agreement, seriously committed.
But no one could be more committed than him. Nine years ago he’d lost his wife to men like the Folsoms. Vicious, conscienceless men who enjoyed robbing, raping and killing. He wouldn’t be happy until every outlaw of that ilk was behind bars or dead. So he laid out his plan, going over it with his men until it was solid, every angle had been examined and any weakness found. They were ready. Failure was not an option.
Chapter Two
“Did ya have to go and hit her so hard?” a man’s voice drawled from a great distance away.
Callie stirred, consciousness coming to her in small snatches in the dark of her mind. A voice, her aching body, the boom of pain in her head. Then it began to fade away, the blackness lulling her back, as if it didn’t want to let her go. She should fight it, she thought. But she didn’t know how.
“Aw, I didn’t hit her,” a gruff voice answered. “Just slammed her against the side of the train. Guess since I put my weight into it, it was a big blow.”
“You’re like a bear,” another man laughed. “She’s just a bit of a thing. Hope you didn’t do more than knock her out.”
“Yeah,” a different voice answered. “I was hopin’ this one might last longer than the other one.”
“Me, too,” one of the men answered. “But if she don’t wake up soon, I won’t wait. I like ‘em screaming, but dead or just knocked out is okay too.”
Men’s cruel guffaws reached her ears, and Callie’s eyes snapped open, squinting in the dusk of twilight. Pain exploded along the side of her head, radiating to her temple when she tried to move. She was on the ground, on her side with her arms twisted behind her. Something tight bound her wrists together. When she tried to move her feet, she discovered they were bound too. She remembered the robbery, the train, the man carrying her away. The images crowded into her brain like a nightmare, and her veins turned to ice.
This wasn’t a dream. She was tied like a hog ready for butchering, left on the ground in some scrabbly forest somewhere, helpless. Terrified, she squeezed her eyes shut again, the orange glowing light from the campfire made her head throb. It was late. The last she remembered she’d been on the train, and now it was early evening. She’d lost an entire day. Where was she? What were those men going to do to her?
Panic spiked through her, she bit her lip to keep in the rising bubble of either a scream or a sob, she didn’t know which. She wanted her sisters. With every bit of her being, she willed herself there, back home in Holbrook where everyone would be gathered in their little rented shanty with the cheerful yellow calico curtains at the window, blowing in the summer breezes.
Maggie would be humming while she peeled potatoes, Abby would be pointing out every off-key note, they’d laugh when Dee came in from the garden patch with fresh vegetables—probably green beans, Dee loved green beans—while Emma bustled about, giving orders, making sure everything was just right, taking charge of frying the salt pork or stirring up biscuit dough.
Determined, Callie tugged at the ropes binding her wrists. They didn’t give. She kicked with her feet, but the bindings held too. Desperation roared through her. She had to get out of here. Maybe if she tried rolling? She heaved her body, rocking once, twice and a third time, finally managing to roll all the way over. She bumped into a hard boulder, though, and she was stuck with no way out.
“Where do you think you’re goin’, Lyle?” one of the men asked.
“Gonna check on our pretty little thing.” Boots clomped closer. “You know the rules. I took her, I get her first. Got me a real hankerin’, too. She’s gonna be good, a sweet thing like that.”
A shadow fell over her. Blue Bandana grinned, his mouth a twisted, victorious sneer. He was big and beefy. Backlit by the orange glow of the campfire, he looked like a monster. He smelled even more strongly of onions and now of male sweat. His bandana slung low around his neck, exposing big yellow teeth.
“Well, now.” He kicked her in the stomach with his boot. Hard. “Look who’s awake.”
Callie didn’t feel the pain. She didn’t feel anything, knowing she couldn’t stop what was about to happen. Her entire body quivered, tiny little shakes that rattled her teeth. Blue Bandana caught the hem of her dress with the toe of his boot and flipped her skirt and petticoats up over her legs, exposing her.
The hot puff of evening air breezed along her calves, knees and thighs. She would have screamed if she hadn’t been so paralyzed with fear. Her quivering body began to quake. If only she could fight, if her hands were free, then she’d have a chance.
But the intent she saw in those dark, lust filled eyes told her there would be no chance. There never had been a chance for her, not from the moment he’d picked her out on the train. He was going to use her, his gang was going to use her, and then he would kill her. She wasn’t getting out of this alive.
A sob caught in her too-dry throat as one of his boots roughly kicked the inside of her right thigh, parting her legs. He unsheathed a hunting knife made for cutting flesh and sinew, made for separating bone.
Wishing she could fight, run, escape, anything, Callie squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to see the fine, sharp edge of that blade glowing orange, reflecting firelight. She felt a yank on her clothing and heard the tear as her skirt ripped in two, felt the press of the steel blade slipped beneath her waistband, where the seams joining the skirt to the bodice were tough, and with a sawing motion, rip went the rest of the dress, exposing her undergarments to the evening air.
“You surely are a pretty thing.” Blue Bandana groaned low as if with pleasure, breathing hard and heavy.
He crouched over her now, kneeling between her thighs. She felt the blade against her skin, its blunt-edged spine, and heard the rip of her chemise and corset. Evening air blew over her bare skin
. Only her drawers were left.
“You and me are about to have a whole lotta fun.” He gave an ugly laugh as his blade tracked down her throat, nicking skin here and there. Little painful paper-cut slices. She cried out, horrified when the knife stopped between her exposed breasts and hesitated. Blue Bandana was panting now, reaching with one hand to loosen his trousers. She caught sight of him aroused and as fierce as the blade he held, and gulped. Shaking hard now, she hardly felt her drawers fall away, only knew she was naked and utterly defenseless spread open before him.
Suddenly gun fire popped in rapid-fire bangs from somewhere near the campfire. The outlaws leaped up, shouting, noise and chaos boomed everywhere, all in a split second. Blue Bandana didn’t have time to react, he gave a surprised ooph, the blade tumbled from his grip and he fell over onto her like a cut tree, dead.
His hot, sweaty and dirty body engulfed her, she felt parts of him she really didn’t want to be aware of hot on her stomach. Revolted, she shuddered, trying to get him off her. She rocked, she shimmied, she tried scooting but he was too heavy. She couldn’t do it.
“Let me help.” A man’s voice rumbled low and deep, somehow different from all the rest. She hadn’t heard him approach because of the shouting and gunfire, but suddenly Blue Bandanna’s weight was gone, his dead body landed in the dirt beside her, his vacant eyes staring up at the stars winking to life above. A man’s shadow fell across her. “You’re safe now.”
“Safe?” She didn’t feel safe as she stared up at the big man above her, glowing darkly in the firelight. He didn’t look like an outlaw, he radiated might.
“First let’s get you loose.” He knelt beside her, lowered his rifle to the ground. “I’m not going to hurt you, I’m just getting out my knife to cut you free.”
“Who are you?” She couldn’t stop shaking. The quakes had turned into tremors, rocking her so hard, her muscles jerked. She couldn’t see this man in the deepening darkness, nothing but the faint brim of his hat, the wide set of strong shoulders, the reassurance of his presence. She swallowed, her throat as dry as desert sand. “Are you a lawman?”
“U.S. Marshal. Here, you should feel the blade against your skin, but I’m not going to cut you.” He touched her with big hands that felt super hot against the curve of her shoulder as he eased her onto her side, away from the boulder. His knuckles bumped against the small of her back, his fingers against the insides of her wrists and he worked. A few tugs, and her hands fell free.
“You okay?” he asked. “Did he hurt you?”
“N-no.” She watched her rescuer stand. He was a tall man, towering over her, casting an impressive shadow as he circled around to free her feet. Her throat had gone dry, adrenaline still coursed through her blood. “Th-thank you. You c-came just in time.”
“That was sheer luck.” He knelt, slid his knife under the rope and cut. “We’ve been tracking the gang for almost a month.”
“You didn’t c-come because of the t-train robbery?”
“No. Is that where he took you?” Mason felt the hemp give and he brushed the rope away from her delicate, slim ankles. “Lyle must have kidnapped you today. He wouldn’t have saved you for later.”
“No, it happened this morning. On the westbound train.”
“I see.” Sympathy filled him, as well as the realization that he’d saved this girl from a terrible fate. He pocketed his knife, began unbuttoning his shirt. “Were you traveling with family?”
“No, it was just me.” Now that she was free, she sat up, crossed her arms in front of herself, brought up her knees for modesty’s sake.
Oh, he’d caught a glimpse of her, ivory beauty and soft secrets. He did his best to avert his gaze. It wasn’t easy, not with such a pretty woman.
“I was traveling to meet my husband-to-be.” Her teeth were clacking together, poor girl, from residual fear.
Well, it would take her a while to calm down, and rightfully so. Nodding, he shrugged out of his shirt. “Here, let’s get you covered up. I don’t think your clothes can be saved.”
“No.” She stared down at the mess of her garments. “Um, maybe if anyone has a needle and thread, I can repair my drawers.”
“That would be a good idea, except I don’t carry needle and thread on me.” He retrieved his rifle, wondering if a leather needle would work. Likely Deeks, their resident tack expert, had one to spare.
“Here, let’s get you standing up.” He waited until his shirt was buttoned up from collar to hem before he offered her his hand. When she took it, her soft skin warmed his. Her hand was tiny compared to his own. She was just a little bit of a thing, and the man in him noticed—even though he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman since Opal’s passing.
“At least your shirt covers the essentials.” She stood, the hem of his garment falling mid-thigh, exposing long, lean legs and her bare feet. “At least it’s dark.”
“My men will be respectful,” he assured her, taking a moment to survey the campsite. It wasn’t the raid they’d been planning. She’d been an unexpected development, the priority the moment he’d spotted her in jeopardy, helpless with Lyle Folsom between her thighs. He’d shot instead of following the plan. He knew without asking that some of the outlaws had gotten away.
“I don’t even know where I am,” she said. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“This is unsettled country, south of the railroad line.” He gestured to the campfire, where old blankets had been draped over a fallen log. “It’s a fair ways to civilization from here. Most of a day’s ride.”
“I see.” She circled around the log, aware of her bare thighs, aware of the smooth clay and sharp rocks beneath her feet. A few bodies lay sprawled lifeless on the ground, dragged by the lawman farther into the shadows. Other outlaws were bound and gagged, and a few lawmen patrolled the campsite, searching in tents, going through packs.
You’re safe, Callie, she told herself, but she still felt vulnerable, especially since she was mostly naked. She eased onto the log, found the edge of one of the blankets and pulled some of the scratchy wool over her bare knees. At least she was sort of covered from chin to toes.
“How am I going to get home?” she asked. “I have to be at a wedding in a few days.”
“Is that so?” The marshal eased down beside her, his nearness almost as hot as the heat from the fire, the orange light gleaming along his bare chest. She tried not to look, she’d never seen a half-naked man before. “Who’s getting married?”
“Me.” She thought of the satchel left on the train, the one with the dress she’d made for her wedding day. Gone now. “I am marrying a man from Clark Creek.”
“Is that so? That’s where I live.” He swept off his hat, let the breeze ruffle through his long dark hair. “How did you meet him?”
She knew what he was doing, trying to get her to talk, to calm down. She appreciated it because he made her feel less alone. One of the other lawmen walked up to him and handed over a tin cup. The marshal handed it to her. Cold, clean water, she realized, taking a sip. It washed the dry feeling off her tongue and cooled her all the way down to her stomach. She felt more settled and took another sip.
“I actually haven’t met the man I’m marrying,” she confessed, after she’d drank every last drop. “I answered his advertisement for a bride.”
“Did you now?” He sounded surprised. The light from the fire found him, tossing an orange sheen across his face. She caught sight of a high, intelligent forehead, shadowed eyes, sharp, proud cheekbones, a strong, square jaw. Whisker stubble made him look rugged.
“Yes, a friend of mine decided to be a mail-order bride and it worked out happily for her.” Callie cleared her throat, trying not to notice the orange shadows licking across the muscled contours of the marshal’s bare shoulders and naked chest. Dark hair curled there, over taut skin. He seemed unconcerned with his own nakedness. Clearly, she was having trouble not noticing it. “So, anyway, I thought I would give it a try.”
“That’s how I met my wife,” he confessed.
“You’re married?” She wasn’t sure why that surprised her, but there was no ring on his hand. Remembering how gentle he’d been with her, she could see that he was a good husband. She lowered her gaze, looking at everything but his chest. “She’s a lucky lady.”
“I was the lucky one.” His voice dipped, layered with a kind of sadness.
He’d said was, she realized. As in past tense. He was a widower, then. She dipped her chin. “I’m sorry.”
“It happened a long time ago.” He stared into the fire, gave a shrug of one wide shoulder. “She answered my advertisement. We spent the better part of six months writing to each other. She was from back East, and I wanted to make sure she’d feel comfortable living out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Did she?” Maybe it wasn’t her business and maybe she shouldn’t be asking him about his loss, which had to be deeply painful, but she wanted to know. How had a mail-order marriage worked for him?
“Yes, she did just fine in a frontier town.” He smiled fondly. There was something genuine about him in that moment. “We were happy. I hope you find the same, Miss. Don’t you worry, I’ll get you delivered safely to your husband-to-be.”
“Thank you.” She shuddered. She couldn’t get the sweaty feel of that outlaw off her skin, but at least the marshal’s words encouraged her. She felt hopeful again. “Maybe we’ll be happy too.”
“Chances are.” The marshal offered her a half-grin and a head bob of encouragement before he rose to his feet. “I’ll see if we can’t find some whiskey around here to clean those cuts with—”
“Mason.” A slim, long-legged man paraded up, sticking to the shadows outside the reach of the firelight. “We’ve got half the gang cuffed and chained. We’re patching up the wounded, it’s nothing that’ll hold us up tonight. Here, I found something that might fit the little lady.”
“Thanks, Deeks.” Mason towered above her, radiating pure masculine power. He tossed something onto the blanket beside her—clothing. “It looks like those should fit. Might not be proper, but you’ll be decent for the ride tonight.”
