His exertion was bringing his fever up. She reached for the damp cloth and smoothed it over his face. “Shhh. You’re going to be all right. I'll cut the ropes soon, I promise. Until then, you’ve got to trust me to take care of you. Shhh. Be quiet now.”
“Brianne, don’t do this to me. Don't … ”
She felt as if she’d always been tired. Her body ached as if she were the one who had been beaten instead of Sloan. And she couldn’t remember what being happy and carefree was like. She freshened the cloth with the last of the water and stroked it over him. “When you get better,” she told him softly, “I’m going to take you home to Killara. You’ll love it. It’s rugged and it's hard, but it has a special beauty about it that goes inside you so that you can't ever forget it.”
He appeared to be quieting and she continued. “There are mountains around Killara that change colors as the sun moves across the sky. And we have valleys with grass so green, it hurts your eyes. Like Ireland, Malvina says. And in the spring the wild-flowers grow thick enough to make you believe you could walk on top of them. I used to fill vases with them and put them all around the house. And I'd weave garlands out of them and wear them on my head. Everyone would laugh and call me princess. Even Patrick. Especially Patrick.”
“And you’re going to love my family. Most of them will be here in a few days. Dominic, Falcon, Joshua, Sean, Cort.” She looked down and saw that his eyes were closed and his breathing was more even. “They’re going to love you as much as I do.”
She waited a few more minutes, making sure that he was going to stay asleep, then pressed a tender kiss to his hot cheek, reached for the canteens and her rifle, and once more headed down to the meadow and the creek. But first she had to make a detour.
The hidden entrance into the canyon was little more than a slash in the thick butte wall, perhaps twenty or thirty feet long. At the other end of the passage was the trail that climbed up the back of the butte, the trail that Brianne was praying with all her heart that Cummings and his men wouldn't find.
She approached cautiously, then set down the canteens and rifle. Drawing her handgun, she began weaving her way into the passage, using all the stealth and lightfootedness that her aunt, Rising Star, had taught her. When she reached the high-growing brush that blocked the entrance, she became even more careful. Finally she stopped just short of the entrance and waited a moment, listening carefully. Hearing nothing, she edged out and quickly looked both ways.
As she studied the trail, it didn’t take her long to see that there was no sign that anyone had been on it in the past few days — not even she and Sloan. Her efforts at masking their tracks had been successful, but she didn't allow herself a celebration. Dan Cummings was still out there.
She carefully erased any footprints she'd made, then began working her way back through the brush, making sure that not a twig was broken or a leaf was turned the wrong way.
She didn’t know Cummings, she reflected, but she’d had a good look at his eyes as she’d hidden just outside the tent Sunday morning, waiting for them to discover that the tent city was burning. She shivered as she remembered the expression of perverse pleasure that had been on Cummings’s face as he had beaten Sloan.
Cummings would be like a wolf on the trail of blood. He wouldn’t give up. He’d be coming.
The only question was when.
Dan Cummings squatted on the flattened top of the boulder, his eyes narrowed against the sun as he scanned the country around him. Where are they?
He had to hand it to that Delaney bitch. She’d done a hell of a job covering her tracks, and he and his men had been riding in circles for days now. But Lassiter had been hurt bad. That would have slowed her up, and she would’ve had to stop before the day was out. And whatever hidey-hole she and Lassiter had crawled into Sunday, they’d still be there. He’d given Lassiter too bad a beating for them not to be.
Unless Lassiter had died.
A malevolent smile spread slowly across his face. That thought almost made up for the news that Dutch had brought him this morning. Janice hadn’t had the ledger on her when they’d found her, and McCord had set her loose. Damn that interfering son of a bitch.
Ever since Janice had stolen the ledger and gotten away, he’d been looking forward to teaching her a lesson. Why in Hades had McCord let her go?
McCord was a dangerous man when crossed, but if he thought for one minute that he, Dan Cummings, was going to tuck his tail between his legs and slink off just because he’d lost the ledger, then McCord had another thought coming.
He wasn’t afraid of McCord. Yes, he was going to find Lassiter and that Delaney bitch, and he was going to get the ledger back. But for him, not for McCord.
McCord didn’t know it, but he was going to be taking on a new partner. His days of being an inferior to McCord were over, because he knew a secret about him that no one else knew, and he was going to use it when the time was right.
He stood and whirled, all in one motion. “Get your asses back in the saddle,” he barked, leaping down from the rock and advancing on the five men with him. “You’ve laid around long enough.”
Wills groaned. “We ain't had a full night’s sleep since we lit out after those two.”
“And we haven’t found them yet, have we? So we keep going.”
Red spoke up. “If you don't start lettin’ us get more than three hours sleep at night, we’re not gonna be in any shape to handle them if we do find them.”
“We are going to find them. Make no mistake. Just shut up and get on those horses.”
“But, boss — ”
Cummings had his gun in his hand before the other men had a chance to blink. “Take your choice. You can rest after we find them or you can rest now, permanently.”
Wills and Red, along with Thompson, Collins, and Becker mounted their horses without another word.
Satisfied, Cummings holstered his gun, then let his eyes scan the horizon one last time. In the distance the massive form of the butte loomed. You've got to be out there somewhere, Lassiter. He swung into his saddle. “Let’s go.”
Unwilling to fire off a shot and possibly attract unwanted visitors, Brianne had checked her traps and found a rabbit. Together with some biscuits and beans that she had hastily collected from the hotel's kitchen before she’d ridden out of Chango, the roasted rabbit made a fine stew. The only problem was that Sloan was still too ill to eat much of it. But, she told herself, the little bit he did manage to eat would help.
“Will you untie me now?”
She’d been sitting near the fire, heating up the coffee, and looked over at him now. He’d been rational for most of the day, and even though he’d slept, he hadn’t lapsed back into anything like delirium. No, he’d seemed to sleep peacefully, deeply. And his fever seemed lower too, thank God. She slid over to him and cut his bonds with her knife.
“I had to do it, Sloan,” she said quietly. “I had no choice.”
He held up his wrists and looked at them. They were raw and crusted with blood.
She rushed on. “I’ll bathe them with hot water. Maybe they won't get infected.”
He flexed the muscles in his arms, then shut his eyes and lay his hands across his stomach. He could still remember the panic he’d felt at being so powerless. It had been terrifying to be in that position and able to do nothing about it. Only one other time in his life had he felt that kind of horrifying helplessness, and that was fifteen years earlier when David had died in his arms. Then as now, he’d been too weak to help himself or to help the one person in the world he had loved.
Today he’d fallen asleep, listening to Brianne talk, but when he’d next awakened, she’d been nowhere in sight. Fear had returned tenfold. Never again did he want to be that vulnerable. Never again did he want to be that dependent on another person.
He felt one of his wrists being lifted, and he opened his eyes to see Brianne beside him. She looked pale and drawn, and there were dark smudges imprinted on the delicat
e flesh beneath her beautiful green eyes.
“I hope this won’t hurt,” she said, beginning to sponge his wrists with heated water.
“You look tired,” he said, grimacing slightly at the sting.
“You’ve been so sick … there was a lot to do. Let me have your other wrist.”
“Haven’t you gotten any sleep?”
“I’ve dozed off here and there.”
“God, Brianne.” It was more a breath than an exclamation.
“I'm all right.” She pushed a long strand of red hair out of her face. “It’s you we need to worry about.”
The lines of his lips firmed. “Tomorrow I’ll feel better. Tomorrow I’ll take care of you.”
“Tomorrow you're still going to be flat on your back. There, I’m finished.” She returned his hand to his abdomen. “I wish I had some sort of salve or something to put on these.”
“Brianne, I’m serious. I’m going to be up on my feet by morning.”
She knew it was an impossible hope, but she didn’t argue. His voice was growing weak again. “Do you think you can eat something else?”
“Maybe later.” He closed his eyes, tired, frustrated, angry.
Brianne added more wood to the fire, then positioned herself at the mouth of the cave. No sign of Cummings yet. That meant a little more time for Sloan to recuperate, and Lord knew, he needed it. But, thank goodness, the worse seemed to be over. Maybe, just maybe, they had a chance.
She arched her back in an effort to relieve the throbbing ache, and her mind turned to the people she’d left behind in Chango. She hadn’t given a thought to Henrietta, Kam, or Phineas since she’d ridden out on Sunday morning. There hadn’t been time. She shook her head wearily and tried to convince herself that they’d be all right. Even if something happened to her, her family would take care of them.
Actually, if something happened to her, her family and the riders from Killara would take revenge … and they'd find Patrick.
Oh, Patrick, she thought with a sudden wrenching pang. How she missed him.
Strange. She’d always believed that no matter how many miles separated them, if Patrick stopped breathing, she’d feel it in her heart. She’d felt nothing, but he’d been gone so long now, there didn’t seem to be any question about it: Patrick must be dead.
Patrick Delaney guided Stormy down the main street of Chango. He sat astride the big palomino with a casual elegance yet unmistakable authority, fully aware of the startled stares directed at him.
Patrick was sure that everyone had given him up for dead. He smiled to himself. Brianne must have caused one hell of a commotion when she’d discovered he’d been kidnapped.
The thought of his three kidnappers — Odis, Hannibal, and Lester Grimes — brought another smile, but this time the smile appeared on his face. He'd never known three scruffier-looking characters in his life. Thank goodness he’d talked them into staying out at their place. They had happily agreed to wait at the hut when he’d assured them that if they did, they wouldn't have to have a face-to-face meeting with Dominic and Falcon Delaney to explain why they'd kidnapped him.
Spotting the three-story facade of the Duke Hotel just ahead, he noticed a maroon-painted wagon with cream-colored trim that proclaimed tooleys miracle RESTORATIVE, A PATENTED CURATIVE. The wagon Stood parallel to the hotel with a horse harnessed to it. Patrick guided Stormy around the wagon, stepped down out of the saddle, and threw his reins over the hitching rail.
Lord, but he couldn’t wait to see Brianne, take a hot bath, eat a good meal, and wring Katy’s pretty neck — in precisely that order. His eagerness to see his sister made him take the front steps of the hotel three at a time. As he strode into the lobby of the hotel, a funny-looking little man wearing a brown and mustard-yellow plaid suit brushed by him, his arms loaded with gear.
“Brianne,” he called. “Where are you?” He had his foot on the bottom stair of the staircase that led to the second and third floors when Mrs. Potter, the wife of the man who owned the Duke Hotel, came hurrying out of the dining room.
“What’s all the shouting about? Mr. Delaney. Is that you?”
Patrick flashed her a grin. “Sure is, Mrs. Potter. I hope you’ve kept my room available.”
“I did. Your sister insisted.” The landlady rubbed her hand across her forehead as if she were developing a headache. “And then she started bringing in all these strange people. Thank goodness you’re here. You can help — ”
“Strange people?”
“Every time she rode out looking for you, she’d come back with someone new, each person more bizarre than the last.”
“Oh, good, Mrs. Potter, there you are.” A woman of perhaps forty-five, wearing a wren-brown traveling suit with a high-collared blouse, rushed down the stairs. A hat perched securely on her tightly bound hair. “I don’t know how long we’ll be gone. We’re just going to keep looking until we find her. At any rate, it is imperative that when the Delaney family rides in, you give them the names of Wes McCord and Dan Cummings as Brianne requested.”
Patrick spoke up. “Did you say Brianne?”
Pulling on a pair of gloves, Henrietta gave Patrick her best schoolteacher stare. “That’s right. And who might you be, young man?”
Patrick took off his hat and ran his hand through his chestnut hair. “I’m Patrick Delaney.”
Her face lit up. “Oh, thank heavens you’re safe. And,” she added as the next thought occurred to her, “thank heavens you’re here. Now you can help us.”
Patrick felt a twinge of uneasiness. “Help you with what?”
Over Patrick’s shoulder she observed Phineas coming through the front door. “I’m Henrietta Jones, and this is Phineas Tooley. Mr. Tooley, this is Brianne’s brother, Patrick Delaney.”
Phineas’s bushy eyebrows rose in astonishment, and a toothy smile of relief bisected his face. “How decidedly fortunate. Now that you’re safe, you can go with us. I was just loading up my wagon. Perhaps you noticed it out front.”
“Help you with what?” Patrick repeated heavily.
“We were just about to set out to find your sister. She’s been gone since Sunday morning.”
Patrick went cold. “Do you know where she went?”
“She rode to some sort of tent city north of town. A man named Wes McCord owns it. Dan Cummings is the foreman. But word is she’s not there anymore.” “Why not?”
Metal clattering against metal sounded as a brown-skinned young giant came thudding down the stairs. He was dressed only in trousers, with an evil-looking necklace of large, curved teeth around his neck, and what looked to be a blanket filled with iron spears hanging from one shoulder. As soon as he saw Patrick, he froze. A variety of conflicting expressions chased across his face. He took several steps back up the stairs, hesitated, then raised his arm and brandished a bedpost in the air. “Auwe. Auwe. Auwe.”
Drawing his gun, Patrick instantly went into a crouch.
“Wait,” Henrietta snapped. “Don’t shoot. It’s just Kam. He thinks you’re a missionary. Kam, come down here this instant,” she said severely, “and quit waving that bedpost around.”
“It is my war club,” the young giant said, eyeing Patrick with apprehension. “I will need it when I embattle the evil men who have taken my Brianne.”
The full explanation would definitely be worth hearing, Patrick decided, but he didn’t have time now. He’d wait until he found Brianne. Holstering his gun, he turned back to Henrietta. “Tell me everything you know.”
“Sunday morning Brianne received word that her friend, Mr. Lassiter, was in some sort of trouble out at the tent city. She immediately left to help him. Then we got word that the tent city had burned to the ground.”
“She used my Tooley’s Miracle Restorative to start the fire,” Phineas put in proudly. “You must have heard of my tonic.”
Patrick was still looking at Henrietta. “Did you hear anything more about Brianne?”
“It seems she rescued Mr. Lassit
er and then disappeared. Everyone is saying that Dan Cummings has gone after her.”
He’d heard all he needed to. “Mrs. Potter, can you fix me up a sack of grub for the trail right away?”
“No need for that.” Phineas protested. “We have plenty of supplies in my wagon.”
“Good, I’ll get what I need from there.” He strode out of the hotel, untied his saddlebag, and headed over to the wagon. By the time Henrietta, Phineas, and Kamanahua got outside, he was already sorting through their supplies, picking what he wanted and stuffing it into his saddlebag.
Phineas's face crinkled in concern. “My dear fellow, there’s no need for that. We’ll all be together.”
“I ride alone,” Patrick said, buckling the flaps of his saddlebag. He was finding it hard to hold on to his patience with them. The trail was already three days old, dammit.
Henrietta was prepared to argue. “Mr. Delaney, we all owe Brianne a great deal. She practically saved each of our lives. And now we want to do the same for her. We've been most concerned. Surely the four of us together will have a better chance than just the one of you.”
Patrick managed to bite back the succinct reply that jumped readily to his lips. He threw the saddlebag over Stormy”s rump and tied it into place. “Look, I’m going to be riding fast. The three of you and that” — he jerked a thumb at the wagon — “will only slow me down. If you’re really friends of Brianne’s, you’ll wait here.”
He swung up into the saddle, and, ignoring the cries of protest behind him, rode out of town.
Chapter 5
Brianne awakened to feel the warmth of the sun on one side of her face. Sloan was at her back. Through the night she’d lain beside him, trying to keep him warm. Every few hours she’d gotten up to check the canyon for intruders.
She hadn’t meant to sleep. As she lay in the little hollowed-out cave on a bed of pine needles and leaves, she remembered during the night thinking of Patrick, Malvina, and Shamus, and her bed in her room on Killara. The bed had a headboard of rosewood that towered nine feet and a canopy of bottle-green velvet above it.
Silken Thunder Page 5
